The Guilty

®

For Susan Always, for you

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Linda McFall. To simply thank her for being a good editor would be overlooking the thousand ways she makes the writing and publishing process a joy. Linda forced me to reach inside this manuscript and, kicking and screaming, pull out a better book. Adam Wilson, who was always there in a pinch and kept everything on track. Joe Veltre, whose insight and savvy make him an überimmortal among agents. Thanks also to Diane Bartoli and Sara Wolski, who patiently answered all my fine-print questions (some of which were half-intelligent). My deepest thanks to Donna Hayes, Dianne Moggy, Margaret O’Neill Marbury, Craig Swinwood, Loriana Sacilotto, Stacy Widdrington, Maureen Stead, Katherine Orr, Marleah Stout, Heather Foy, Ana Luxton, Jayne Hoogenberk and Valerie Gray, aka Team MIRA. Whenever I don’t think I could be more impressed with my publisher’s dedication and aptitude, they raise the bar. I only hope I’m able to keep pace. Cris Jaw, designer extraordinaire. Behind those bullet holes lies her brilliance. Michael Wallis, Professor James Starrs, Frederick W. Nolan and Marcelle Brothers, whose sturdy shoulders provided support in my research for this novel.

Timothy L. O’Brien, who shared the wonders of journalism’s most hallowed halls. Mom, Dad and Ali, supportive and nurturing as always, thank you again for helping me live my dream. Wilson, who always gives me something to look forward to when I come home. Jeff, Jane and Sabrina, my beloved in-laws, who not only bent over backward to spread the good word in every way possible, but raised the wonderful girl who became my wife. Great job! And to Susan. My first reader, my best friend, my soul mate. Thank you.

Prologue They say it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. I disagree. I’ve lost before. I lost the affection of my parents before I was old enough to know that the world looked upon an estranged child with sad eyes. I lost my first love because I was too cowardly to protect her. I nearly lost my life due to circumstances beyond my control. All of those losses created holes in my life. Holes I’ve attempted to patch up, to cover, but they’ll always be there, even if they don’t leave a mark on the surface. Doesn’t mean I can’t try to forget. Through life. Through work. Through Amanda. If she wasn’t here, lying next to me in our bed, her head inches from mine, I wouldn’t be here at all. It’s not that I’d be back in Oregon, paying my dues at the news desk of the Bend Bulletin, skiing at Mount Bachelor, thirsting through thirteen inches of annual rainfall, and paying two hundred bucks a month in rent. If she wasn’t here, I would either be rotting in the ground

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somewhere or in a jail trying to stay alive while cursing a simple twist of fate. Her soft brown hair cascading down her back, eyes so bright and big I get lost in them. One year ago I was running for my life. A total stranger saved me. Without her, everything would have been lost. And God help me I can’t lose her, because I don’t have the strength to patch that kind of hole. So as I lie here, watching Amanda’s chest rise and fall, all I can do is hope I’m here to witness every last breath of her life. And hope that, finally, the stories I report won’t be my own.

1 T

he limousine pulled up to the curb outside the Kitten Club, and like a cult waiting for its leader, dozens of heads turned at once. Hundreds of eyes widened. Pulses sped up, hearts raced. A black-clad bouncer stepped to the limo and opened the door. A slender leg stepped onto the curb. Then it stopped, its owner making sure the cameras had time to swallow up every inch of perfect skin. Then another leg slipped out. The crowd moaned, her body glitter giving the girl’s normally pale skin a translucent glow. The crowd gasped as her full form emerged. Those who weren’t too stunned to move pressed against the velvet ropes, the bouncers going into full push-’em-back mode. Flashbulbs popped by the dozen. She flashed that millionwatt seductive smile, the one that had seduced and captivated people all over the world. They shouted at her. Nothing she hadn’t heard before. Yet as she stepped onto the red carpet, rolled out just for her, listening to the throng of fans chanting her name, Athena Paradis couldn’t help but feel that the world had given itself to her. She waved to the dazed crowd, stopped to sign a few autographs and blow air kisses through ruby lips, laughed at the

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mismatched chunky schlubs who would be fantasizing about her that night as they lay alone in the dark. One-thirty in the morning, but the flashes and strobe lights made it seem like broad daylight. It was just late enough for the party to be in full swing, just late enough to make sure she’d be the last memory in a night her fans would never forget. Despite her seeming nonchalance, Athena spent many nights in breathless anticipation of these delicious moments when all eyes would be on her. Hearing digital cameras beeping, fingers tapping on cell phones as flabbergasted fans sent grainy images to their friends. Young men trying to give her the same lame sultry looks she’d seen and laughed at a million times. Yet she would always smile just enough to make them think they had a chance. This was Athena’s world, her oyster, and it was delicious. Everyone else watched from outside the snow globe, hoping that one special night they too might be touched by her magic. In three days, Athena Paradis would release her very first album, The Goddess Athena. Her promotional tour was in full swing, and tonight at the Kitten Club was a prime stop. She was scheduled to guest DJ, spin and sing tracks that had never been heard outside the recording studio (created with the gentle touch of some very talented—and patient—sound producers, vocal coaches and technicians). Athena’s autobiography, HOW YOU CAN BE LIKE ME, was ghostwritten by a pleasant sixtyyear-old Jew named Herman Goldstein. It spent eight weeks on the New York Gazette bestseller list. Her signings all required extra security. Herman wasn’t allowed to attend. Three bouncers the size of minivans controlled the crowd. The mayor’s office had sent several off-duty cops just in case. Athena’s manager and publicist had called Mayor Perez’s

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office nonstop requesting massive police protection for their twenty-two-year-old gold mine, but the second-termer refused. Not that he didn’t want to help. The mayor was well known for his reliance on sizzle over steak, providing a good show to distract people from their everyday woes. He’d written three self-help books and was constantly photographed alongside celebrities, including Athena Paradis. But the police union was busy negotiating a new contract, and they were squeezing him hard. Adding additional unnecessary force tonight would only cost overtime the city couldn’t afford. Every nightclub Athena graced with her presence would fatten her bank account by fifty thousand dollars. The hotter—or more desperate—the club, the more they paid. Most promoters, like the Kitten Club’s Shawn Kensbrook, tripped over themselves to pay Athena ungodly sums of money for a simple appearance. She would show up, pose for the camera, down a few kamikaze shots, dance on the bar, and within a week the patronage tripled. Best advertising in the world, and a hell of a lot more entertaining than an ad in a movie theater or those worthless postcards. Tonight, though, wasn’t about appearance fees. If she seduced the crowd, it would be worth its weight in platinum for her album. Athena sauntered past the throng of gawking men and starry-eyed women, slipping into the pulsating darkness. Her entourage was immediately met by Shawn Kensbrook, club promoter extraordinaire and co-owner of the Kitten Club. Just three years ago, what was now the Kitten Club had been an abandoned warehouse in Manhattan’s meatpacking district. It was destined to be torn down by developers or vermin, whichever got there first. Kensbrook was able to

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mount an army of backers to buy what was widely considered a sinkhole. Through his A-list Rolodex, Kensbrook turned a pile of rubble into Gotham’s hottest nightspot since the heyday of Limelight. Its clout had grown to the point where New York Magazine had referred to it as “The Oprah Winfrey of music promotion.” If you had to jump on one couch to get maximum exposure, the Kitten Club was the place to jump. Shawn was decked out in a wool Versace suit that ran $2,200 and burned off a thousand calories a night. Shawn had purposefully bought it a size too small, the fabric stretching over his taut frame. Athena knew the only thing he worked harder at than promoting his club was promoting his body. Unlike most in the entertainment field, Kensbrook accomplished it solely through weightlifting, protein bars and the best personal trainers money could buy. Bastard didn’t even drink. Shawn pecked Athena on the cheek and ushered her through the crowd to the DJ booth in the back. She shook hands with a guy Shawn introduced as DJ Stix, a lightskinned black man wearing sunglasses rimmed with diamonds. No doubt they were real. Kensbrook would want his employees to dazzle in every way, no matter the price. Athena’s manager, a twitchy man named Eddie, would be standing by in case she got the crazy urge to sing without proper electronic vocal support. Athena had an army of producers who made sure she sounded perfect in the studio. Live, anything could happen. After the current song ended, Stix turned down the music and Kensbrook picked up the house microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, kittens, cats and lions of all ages,” he said. “It is my pleasure to introduce you to the Queen of

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all Media, her royal highness herself, the woman whose debut album drops this Tuesday, give it up, show your love, for the beautiful Athena Paradis!” The crowd roared as Athena waved, blowing imaginary kisses, flaunting her body and striking glamorous pose after pose. She was a god among mortals. She knew it, they knew it, and they all loved it. Suddenly a deep, throbbing bass began to reverberate through the club. Squeals of joy leapt from the lips of heavybreathing men and women. Then, after a dozen bass thumps, the synthesizer kicked in, and the club came alive. The sweaty bodies congealed into a solid mass as the expertly arranged rhythm sent ripples through them, electricity making every person sway, every person bounce, every one of them belonging to her. Sweat coated Athena’s upper lip. She licked it, shuddered at the sensation, and knew the night would be a memorable one. The blue Missoni dress clung to her body, the fabric matted on her curves like tissue paper. The dress had been airmailed by Ottavio Missoni himself, specifically for Athena to wear tonight. She could feel DJ Stix’s eyes drinking her in. He didn’t even pretend to look away. Even Shawn Kensbrook couldn’t help but steal an eyeful as she danced and spun to the beat. Athena looked at them with a seductive grin, then raised the volume a few notches, the bass thumping harder. The music consumed the night. And then Athena jumped on top of the turntables. The crowd stopped dancing, stared at her, cheered her on. She ran her hands over her body, made every one of them feel like they could be her lover. Athena owned them. Every single one.

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Somebody handed Athena a clear glass. She drank it in two gulps. Vodka tonic. With a hint of lime. She could feel the ecstasy tab kicking in. The whole world became a velvet dream, soft, wet and inviting. She kissed the air, watched as her lips sent waves of passion through hundreds. When the song ended, Stix took Athena’s hand and escorted her back to her nine hundred pounds of bodyguard. The lips pleaded with her to stay, reaching and pawing as she was led through the crowd. Shawn Kensbrook ducked through the prying arms. Athena’s lead guard recognized him, parted the way. Shawn was dripping with sweat. She envied that he could experience such ecstasy while sober. He threw his arms around her. Whispered into her ear. “Athena, hon, that was off the charts.” “No,” she said. “Come Tuesday, that’s number one on the charts.” Shawn smiled, nodded. “Look at this, I mean, will you look at it? All these people here for you…what’s that feel like?” She smiled at him, flicked her tongue into his ear. She felt him shiver. Felt him grow hard in an instant. “You’ll never know.” Shawn watched as the bodyguards whisked her away. The bouncers parted the curtains, flung open the doors. Her limo waited just beyond the red carpet. It would take her to Nikos’s SoHo loft, where he’d have champagne, strawberries and other goodies waiting. They’d do it all night before passing out naked on his satin sheets. Tomorrow she would see her photo in newspapers across the city. Athena stepped onto the red carpet and waved to her fans. Her new fans. Her old fans. Fans who would give anything for her. She took one step onto the carpet. Smiled. And then a crack

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of thunder filled the air, and a bullet smashed through her skull. And just like that, her blood staining the carpet an even darker red, the Goddess Athena died.

2 I woke up thinking that Amanda must have hijacked my cell phone. That’s the only way my ring tone could have been changed from the standard and satisfying triple beep to an electronic version of that awful new Athena Paradis song, “I Want UR Love.” And the only thing worse than hearing that song come from a tinny cell phone speaker was being woken by it at three in the morning. Amanda grumbled. Her arm was thrown over my chest, but her sleep hadn’t been interrupted. Figures I’d be the only one disturbed by her diabolical creation. I reached across to the nightstand where I kept the phone, careful not to dislocate my shoulder since my other arm was pinned under Amanda. There are worse things in the world than having your arm stuck underneath a beautiful woman who loves you. I covered the speaker with my thumb and checked the incoming number. Christ, not again; this was becoming a routine. It was Mya, my ex-girlfriend. Two-thirty in the morning. The third time this week Mya had called in the wee hours. I was having a hard time putting an end to it. I knew

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since last year Mya had been on a slippery slope. Calling from a bar, no doubt. I could practically smell the Stoli through the mouthpiece. Mya and I dated for several years in college, a time I could hardly remember. When we met, I was smitten. She was tall, beautiful, with confidence like no girl I’d ever met. And for some reason she’d picked me. I don’t know if I ever loved her, or simply loved being with her. Loved being with a girl I knew would be somebody. We’d broken up a year ago. Right before my life had changed forever. Our relationship was probably doomed whether or not I’d been accused of murder, but after I nearly died and became a minor New York celebrity, she’d had a change of heart. Suddenly she wanted to give our buried love life another go. She didn’t love Henry Parker anymore. At least not the Henry she’d met years ago. Not the Henry Parker she used to kiss behind the stacks in the Cornell library. She loved the Henry Parker that had been invented by the newspapers and magazines. The indestructible one who’d survived a three-day manhunt, only to live and regain his job at the city’s most prestigious newspaper. Not the Henry Parker who could barely run without feeling the pain in his side from where the bone shards punctured his lung. Or the Henry whose heart beat fast every time he heard a police siren or a car backfire. That was the Henry that only Amanda knew. And I was happy she knew it. It felt real. Like it could last forever. Mya loved the other Henry Parker. But that wasn’t me. That Henry was a creation, a monster created by ink. I wanted nothing to do with him. At the same time, the year Amanda and I had been together had seen incredible changes. When I’d first met Amanda—

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when I’d lied to her to save my skin—she’d been as lost as I was. Her entire life existed in a trunk full of notebooks she’d kept since she was a little girl. Notebooks she used to catalog every single person she met, writing down superficial details, mirroring the abandonment in her real life. When she picked me up in her car, thinking I was a student named Carl Bernstein, Amanda wrote down her thoughts about that nonexistent man. I wanted her to know life wasn’t something to be cataloged. With me, she could actually experience it. Soon after she moved in, the notebooks disappeared. One night, after making love, I’d asked about them. She said she didn’t need a stupid pen and paper anymore. She said real memories were good enough. And that’s what I promised to give her. Even if it meant her playing practical jokes with my ring tone. I clicked the answer button and waited. I could hear breathing on the other end. It was the fifth time this month Mya had called after midnight, in addition to the myriad calls to my office, always from unlisted numbers or pay phones. At night, I could chalk it up to her being drunk. During the day, I didn’t know what to make of it. A week ago Mya had called at 3:30 a.m. She asked if I’d meet her for a drink. To talk about stuff. We’d never really had a chance to say goodbye, she’d said. I told her we did. And still she kept calling. “Hehlo? Izzis Henry?” “Yes, Mya,” I whispered, watching to see if Amanda would wake up. “Where are you?” “At home.” “Why are you at home?” “I was sleeping.” “Why are you sleeping?”

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“Because I have work tomorrow.” I waited. She said nothing. “Listen, Mya, you need to stop calling me.” “Oh, stop it,” she said, and I could picture her waving her hand dismissively. “You’re not sleeping now. It’s early, silly. Come out for a drink.” “Mya, there’s no way…” “Who is that?” I felt Amanda stir, her eyes fluttering open. “Is someone on the phone?” “It’s me,” I said softly. “Go back to sleep. It’s Mya again.” “Again? Does she think you deliver pizza or something?” Amanda said through a yawn. “Tell her to call Domino’s and get out of our life.” I waited a moment until Amanda’s breathing evened. “Listen, Mya, I’m going back to sleep. Please. Stop calling.” “I miss you, Henry.” Her voice had changed, choked up. I closed my eyes. Tried not to think about the last time I’d hung up on Mya late at night. I couldn’t do it again. She had to choose to let it go. “Come on, Mya, I’m with someone else now. You know that. Please. Hang up the phone. Go back to your friends.” “I have no friends. Please, Hen. I really want to see you.” “Good night, Mya. I have to go. You should go.” “Fine,” she said, and then I heard a dial tone. I swallowed. Felt Amanda stir. Wished Mya hadn’t gotten so screwed up after the whole mess last year. Wished she could be happy. And then the phone rang again. Amanda bolted upright. “Don’t bars in this city have a closing time? I swear you need to get a restraining order. If you answer it you’re sleeping on the couch.” “I don’t fit on the couch.”

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“Then you get the refrigerator. I have an eight-thirty tomorrow. It’s hard to convince a child that their future is in good hands if their counsel shows up looking like Morticia Addams.” I pressed Answer. “Mya, I told you I’m with someone—” “That’s none of my business or concern, Henry, but if it makes you feel better Jack asked me to blow you a kiss.” Crap. It was Wallace Langston, the editor-in-chief of the New York Gazette. My boss. And he definitely wasn’t calling because he missed me. Wallace was a good man, had hired me out of college, but I learned quickly that New York had a way of chewing up and spitting out its good men. Few newsmen were more respected, but readers didn’t care much about professional courtesy. They wanted juice, gossip, and sadly often the lowest form of both. And that was one thing Wallace refused to give. I’d gotten used to late-night calls from the office. Jack O’Donnell—my colleague and professional idol—was prone to doing it just for kicks. Like Mya, sometimes late at night I could smell the Seagrams on his breath through the phone. Jack worked late. He was unmarried, had no children. He just needed to hear a friendly voice, I supposed, because there weren’t many in his life. So I didn’t mind. And thankfully Amanda slept like wood. “Wallace, what’s up?” “I need you at Thirteenth and Eleventh. Right away.” “I’m guessing this isn’t so we can spend nine bucks on a beer at one of those clubs in the meatpacking district.” He ignored me. “Just get in a cab. There’s been a homicide at some swanky shindig called the Pussy Club, I need you to cover it. I’d send Jack but he hasn’t set foot in anything but an Irish pub since the seventies.” “Pussy Club…you mean the Kitten Club?”

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“I mean it’s 2:33 a.m. and if you’re not here in ten minutes, we’re going to get scooped by the Dispatch, the Observer and those crummy papers they give away for free on the subway platforms.” “Why me? Who’s on night shift?” “You’re the only guy who’s even remotely young enough to even understand this stuff. Now get dressed.” “What stuff? I don’t follow.” “Athena Paradis was shot to death this morning. Looks like it might have been some sort of execution. Single shot, from a distance. I’m going out on a limb and saying you’re more familiar with her, er, résumé than Jack is.” I was stunned. Athena Paradis. The world’s most famous socialite. Famous for, well, something. She averaged three page ones a month at the Dispatch. Wallace refused to give her that kind of coverage unless she cured AIDS or something. But murder changed all that, I guess. “On my way,” I said. “I was never a fan of hers,” Wallace said, offering more information than he needed to. “But the way it looks down there…she didn’t deserve what this monster did.”

3 T

he New York night was muggy. Even at two-thirty in the morning, when the sun, like most of the city, is hibernating and waiting for the start of a new day, something kept the air thick. It was early May, and humidity already choked the streets. Late night revelers all wore shirts soaked through with sweat, foreheads shiny, content for the sun to never show its face again. My cab slowed down and then stopped as we approached a tangled mess. I could see flashing lights nearly three blocks away. Kids lining the streets with worried looks. It took a lot to ruin a good night. I could only imagine what had happened here. I walked the last few blocks to Thirteenth, wading through honking cars and loaded partiers screaming on cell phones. I couldn’t help but hear the panicked voices. “Man, there was blood everywhere. I was right near her, man!” “She…they think she’s dead. Oh God, does that mean her album won’t come out on time?” I saw Wallace Langston talking to a cop and jotting down some notes on a spiral pad. Wallace didn’t get out of bed for

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many stories. He left that to his city desk. But this wasn’t just New York front-page news, this was a national headline. The kind of tawdry story that Paulina Cole and the Dispatch would be sopping up with a biscuit and squeezing dry. I hadn’t seen Paulina Cole in months, and I prayed she wasn’t here tonight. I didn’t need any distractions. Paulina Cole had once been a top reporter at the Gazette but left after penning a series of controversial yet shockingly popular articles where she insinuated that my murder accusation was merely the next story in a succession of young journalists whose names always ended up in brighter lights than their stories. Didn’t matter that my murder rap was bogus. The articles enabled Paulina to jump to the New York Dispatch, the Gazette’s biggest rival. She got more money, more perks, and of course the chance to hoist her name among brighter lights. Covering Athena Paradis’s murder would be tricky. If we played catch-up to Paulina and the Dispatch’s muckraking, they would dig a grave and bury us in a pile of our own moral righteousness. Above the Kitten Club was perched a gigantic neon sign in the shape of a kitten. And not just any run-of-the-mill kitten, the kind of kitten that apparently wore a halter top and stockings and every few seconds tipped back some sort of pink cocktail that probably cost more than my pants and contained less alcohol than a glass of seltzer. Appearances. Atmosphere. That’s what Kitten Club patrons came for. And last night they got it. In the form of Athena Paradis, world-famous socialite, erstwhile fashion model, nubile actress, soon-to-be recording artist, and, depending on who you asked, either your personal hero or the bane of your existence. I had nothing against Athena personally, but a few weeks

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ago a colleague forwarded me a leaked demo of her first single. Not even three straight hours of Bruce and Dylan could rinse that stain off. You’d think my generation would have more to offer. I’d like to say they do, but lying to yourself is pretty pathetic. Within hours all those people soundly sleeping in their beds would wake up to find out that one of the most famous women on the planet had been murdered. That the suspect was still at large. That there would be a city-wide manhunt that would put all other investigations—including my own— to shame. Not to mention the resources that Athena’s father— Costas Paradis—would likely contribute. Bottom line, if your finger pulled the trigger, you were a marked man. But as soon as the killer fired that round, the reverberations created a news story. It was my job to see all the ripples. Problem is, New York is a city eight million strong. If you want to disappear—and don’t have a pile of mush instead of brains—you could disappear. Hundreds of crimes and dozens of murders went unsolved every year. All this guy did was raise the stakes. Raised them to a level that would scare off pretty much anyone without a death wish, but raised nonetheless. I saw Wallace, approached him. The editor-in-chief of the New York Gazette was a tall, slender man. He wore a neatly trimmed brown beard flecked with gray, and though his stature was hardly imposing, his intelligence shone through. He wore a light jacket, hands tucked into the pockets. Wallace and I acknowledged each other with a brief nod, then turned back to the scene. A line of police tape had cordoned off a thirty-foot radius around the spot where Athena’s body had fallen. Even against the dark red of the carpet, I could make out a darker, more gruesome shade. The body had been removed from the scene,

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but forensics had taped off the angle at which her body had fallen. Several areas were marked with flags, presumably for ballistics and blood spatter experts. Some of the spatter appeared to be as far as ten feet from where Athena had fallen. Only a high-caliber slug could cause that much damage. I saw a flag on the carpet, in front of a piece of chipped pavement. Quite possibly where the bullet had lodged after exiting Athena’s skull. The other bars in the district had been emptied out by the cops. The music had been turned off. The only sounds were the sirens and the cops, but the fear was louder than all of it. “Warm out tonight,” I said. Wallace nodded, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief as though reminded to. “Gunman shot Athena from a distance. Goddamn sick coward.” “Just what I was thinking,” I said. I looked around. “Guy would have been noticed on the street,” I said. Wallace lifted his head, looked at the rooftops, didn’t need to say more. “How do you shoot a woman like that?” Wallace said, to nobody. “Disgusting, that’s what it is.” “Athena wasn’t just a woman,” I said. “You get that famous, you become bigger than yourself. Become an ideologue or something.” Wallace looked at me, knew we were both thinking about what happened to me last year. When people thought I’d murdered a cop, I was no longer Henry Parker. I stood for something evil. And even when I was vindicated, the stench lingered. Athena lived in that spotlight every day of her life. Police were questioning several young men and women who were sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against an ambulance. They looked visibly shaken. Eyes red, heads down. Confidence sucked out of them. Several were crying. I

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wondered whether they were crying due to the horror they’d just witnessed, or because the world had been robbed of Athena Paradis. “Cops aren’t going to get anything from witnesses who were inside the club,” I said. “Figure at least fifty paparazzi outside, all those strobe lights, every single eye was focused on her.” “How can you be so sure?” Wallace asked. “’Cause mine would be. You tell yourself you could care less about celebrities like Athena Paradis, but it’s damn hard to turn away. And this was her scene.” I thought of Mya. Wondered if she was near here when she called. I hoped she’d made it home safe. I debated calling her just to be sure. “This is page one,” I said to Wallace. “We’re too late for the print edition,” he said. “I want your copy on the Gazette website in an hour. And I want updates by the time Al Roker is smiling his way through the weather report.” “Awful generous deadline of you.” Wallace looked at me. “We mishandle this story in any way, the Dispatch will cannibalize our circulation rate and spend all winter bragging about its superior reporting.” “They couldn’t report their way out of the 6 train,” I said, expecting a laugh, but receiving none. “Doesn’t matter,” Wallace said softly. “Story like this, it’s all about how sensational you can make it. Who runs the cover photo of Athena in the most revealing dress. Gets the best quotes from her exes. Finds the most salacious angle to play up, even if it turns out to be bogus later on. You know Paulina will be all over this.” “So what do you want me to do?” “You know the sign I keep by the elevators to all our news divisions, right?” I nodded. The sign Wallace was referring

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to was simply titled The Three Types of Reporters. It was a piece of paper containing four short, handwritten sentences. Some reporters are always one step behind. Some reporters always keep pace. Some reporters are always one step ahead. What kind of reporter are you? “Good. Then Evelyn will be expecting your copy in sixty minutes.” “I’m a lucky man.” Evelyn Waterstone was the Gazette’s battle-ax of a Metro desk editor. All stories that focused within the five boroughs were doled out by her, met with her approval, and she had final edit. She was notorious for fighting for front-page space, claiming that New York was the country’s central nervous system, and that most relevant stories stemmed from there. So far she had treated me with kid gloves. Which left me uneasy. She always seemed to be much tougher on the other young journalists, the interns, the people who hadn’t paid their dues. The fact that she liked me was fairly disconcerting. Like someone who smiled to your face while they held a Ginsu behind their back. “Leave out the stuff about slug caliber and shooter vantage points,” Wallace said. “Too much conjecture. Let the Dispatch be forced to make retractions. We need to play this clean.” “I’ll get it done,” I said, trying to convince not only Wallace but myself. “Don’t worry, I spoke to Evelyn before you got here. She’s aware of the time-sensitive nature, and is waiting for your e-mail. I’m asking you to play in the same scuzzy ballpark the Dispatch does, only you bat clean. You have an

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hour. Find an angle the Dispatch will miss. The entire country is going to be talking about Athena’s murder, and we need to give them something nobody else will. I don’t want any baseless conjecture. I don’t want any name-calling. I don’t want to stoop to their level. I want you to report this story the way a Gazette reporter would.” I nodded. Had no intention of doing it any other way. Since I returned to the Gazette full time, I’d worked my ass off in an effort to prove I could hack it at that level. My first goround had been sidetracked by a slight case of murder. I’d spent the better part of a year trying to live down my own story, and now it was time to return to what I did best. To what I was born to do. Find the stories nobody else could. I looked back at the crime scene. Saw where the body had fallen. A ballistics expert used a pencil to trace an invisible line from the top of a brownstone several blocks away to the spot where the bullet had struck Athena. This club had security cameras outside, meaning Athena’s death had undoubtedly been captured live and in color. All those cameras. All those witnesses. No doubt a dozen people or more had taken cell phone photos and videos of her murder. Who knew how many ghouls would post them publicly? Whoever had killed Athena couldn’t have picked a more public place. It was as if the killer wanted people to see it, to record it, to spread his mayhem. It didn’t make my job any easier, that’s for sure. There would be a cacophony of noise tomorrow, and I needed to find a pitch that could rise above it. I looked at the brownstone being eyed by the tech. Checked my watch. Under an hour to find a story. Didn’t have to be the whole ball of yarn, just a strong thread. Sometimes a thread was all you needed.

4 I pushed my way through the throng of eager reporters. Felt more than one elbow jab my ribs. I wasn’t naive enough to think they were accidental. Much of the NYC press corps still burned because of the publicity I’d received from my murder rap. Grizzled vets who resented the book and film deals I’d turned down. It was a Catch-22. They would have hated me just as much if I’d taken the money. The spotlight of fame exposed every jealous and spiteful emotion from those who wished they had it, and from those who wanted nothing to do with it. I saw Curtis Sheffield on the cop side of the tape, holding back photographers and issuing “no comments” like they were going out of style. Curt Sheffield was a young black officer, two years out of the academy and the kind of cop who’d be one of New York’s finest for years to come. Fit, tall, with a smile that got female witnesses offering more than their side of the story. I’d interviewed Curt a few months ago for a story on the NYPD’s developing new body armor, how the upgrade was long overdue, and how based on gunshot wound studies the new vests, when implemented across the country, would likely save up to thirty lives a year.

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Curt was glad the department finally kicked in the dough to save lives, but offered sincere remorse for the lives that had already been lost. He’d been honest and eloquent, and it was clear the public good was his passion. The department had recognized this—and recognized that his face would look good on a poster—and within weeks Curt was the centerpiece of a new NYPD recruitment campaign. Despite our naturally combative professions, I considered Curt a friend. He was a great source because he knew any information he passed along would be treated with respect. A few weeks after the recruitment drive started, Curt admitted that most cops weren’t big fans of do I know you looks. They don’t like getting recognized in movie theaters or getting asked for autographs. So we had something in common. Curt saw me as I battled the wave of gawkers barricaded behind police tape. He walked over fast, a stern look in his eye. “Hey, back off,” he said, approaching a grizzled paparazzo trying to sneak his camera beneath the tape. He eyed me, popped his head to the left. Come over here. I followed him off to the side. Another cop held back the masses so we could talk in private. “You believe this shit?” Curt said. “Don’t know what’s worse, cleaning up this mess or having Athena Paradis’s stupid song stuck in my head while her blood is drying on the sidewalk.” “I’d say they’re both pretty bad.” “Yeah. Pretty bad,” he said, distracted. He was chewing gum. His jaw was working overtime, anything to keep his mind occupied. “So you assigned to this mess?” I asked. “You aren’t assigned to shitstorms, they just happen to rain when you’re walking by.” Curt smacked his gum.

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“Big story,” he continued. “Not just any girl got killed here tonight.” “Don’t I know it.” I leaned in. “Listen, man, if I had to guess, Athena was killed by a high-powered rifle. Highcaliber slug.” I pointed at the outcropping of rooftops surrounding the Kitten Club. “Your killer shot from the roof of one of these buildings. Guess it’s up to your forensics and spatter people to figure out the angle and trajectory.” “Like Deadwood out here. Everybody saw everything, but nobody saw nothing. Know what I mean?” “Yeah. Figure some sick asshole with a video cell phone will upload this to YouTube any minute now.” I looked around, saw half a dozen half-drunk and half-asleep club goers fiddling on cell phones and BlackBerries. “Maybe sooner than later.” Curt kept chewing, nodded. “You see that building over there?” He flicked his head north. “Which one?” “Don’t know,” he said, eyes locked on to mine. “Maybe redbrick or something.” I looked again. There was a redbrick building two blocks north and one block west of us. I could make it out through the early morning haze. “Seen a lot of my boys in blue checking it out. Trying not to cause a stir.” “That right?” Curt nodded. “Hate to see those cockroaches at the Dispatch get the brass ring. You know they had a reporter over here from their gossip section, offered to write me up as one of NYC’s hottest bachelors if I planted a bug in our briefing room? Fucking parasites.” “Hell, you’d be lucky to break the top hundred.” “Yeah, tell that to my girlfriend. I’d be on patrol with a

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GPS monitor up my ass the second she thinks my eyes start wandering.” Curt looked around, coughed into his hand. “Can’t say I was a fan of Athena’s, you know, work, but Christ, the girl was only twenty-two.” “No kidding,” I said. We stayed silent for a moment, then I remembered my deadline. “Hey, drinks on me this week. If I don’t hit my deadline which is in, oh about six minutes, I’ll be out of work and you’ll have to pick up the tab.” “Then get the hell out of here.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Take it easy, Parker.” After saying goodbye I hung back for a minute. I didn’t want to let anyone else know I had a possible scoop. Then I waded back into the soup of reporters, stuffed my hands in my pockets and headed north. Two patrolmen jogged by me. I slowed down. There were several cops huddling outside of the redbrick building Curt had pointed out. As I got closer I heard radio activity. I stopped at the corner and peeked around. A cop stood by the awning, a walkie-talkie in his hand. A plainclothes cop, probably from Forensic Investigation, strode up and spoke to him for a minute, then ducked inside. I took a breath, waited until the cop was alone, then rounded the corner and approached him. “Help you?” he said. Nothing to see here, move along. “Henry Parker, New York Gazette.” I showed him my press credentials. Might as well have been a slab of lemon, the way his face scrunched up. “Go on, get out of here.” “Something going on inside this building?” The cop locked eyes with me, then spoke deliberately. “You know you don’t have a whole lot of fans in the law enforcement community.”

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I nodded. Even though charges had never been brought for the murder of Officer John Fredrickson, if not for me he’d still be alive. And even though he was dirty as sin, that was something no cop or Fed would ever forget. “Crime scene is over on Thirteenth.” He jerked his thumb back where I’d come from. “You want a better view of the crime scene, might I suggest walking to the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge and then jumping off.” I laughed, pretended it didn’t affect me. “I saw several officers entering and exiting this site.” “You saw wrong.” “Officer…” I said, looking at his badge. “Officer Lemansky. I know this is the building the killer shot Athena Paradis from. You and I both know this murder is going to make both of our lives a living hell until the killer is caught. All differences aside, the story is huge, and it won’t go away just because you tell me to. Whether it’s the Gazette, the Dispatch or the National Enquirer, you’re going to have reporters up your ass until this psycho is caught. Do you read the newspaper?” He nodded. “So what?” “So you must have read that story the Dispatch ran last week. Detective Pedro Alvarez, killed in the line of duty. Did you know him?” Lemansky’s silence was an affirmative. “So you know the Dispatch ran a front-page story two days after his death. About his mistress. Lena something, right?” Officer Lemansky sniffed. He shuffled his feet. “Fucking parasites,” he said. “Madeleine deserved better than seeing her family’s name dragged through the mud.” He looked at me. “Alvarez was a good cop and a good husband. If

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it wasn’t for people like you he’d still be remembered that way.” I had my opening. “I don’t work for the Dispatch. I’m not interested in smear campaigns and ruining families to sell papers. If you don’t talk to me, another reporter will get the story. You’ve read the Gazette. So you can talk to me right here, right now, or I can’t promise what tomorrow’s headline will be in the Dispatch. But I can promise you what the headline will be in the Gazette.” Lemansky was searching my eyes for the truth. Whether he could trust me. I knew he could. He nodded. “I give you something, it came from an anonymous source. I get quoted, or you do anything to go back on what you just said, I don’t care if the papers start claiming we’re fucking aliens from Mars, you’ll get a mouthful of broken teeth before you ever get another story.” I said, “You have my word.” He looked around. I thought about Curt. Knew the cops just wanted to make sure the right thing was done. “Forensics is saying they found a note scrawled up on the roof, below the ledge they think the shooter rested the gun on. They’re analyzing it, but they say he wrote in block using a Sharpie so it’s pretty much useless. They’re sifting through about a ton of loose gravel up there, could take days to find anything else.” “The note,” I said, speaking softly, half to calm the cop and half to slow down my heart. “What did it say?” The cop looked around again. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Some lab rat passed copies around, asked if anyone had ever heard of someone talking like this before. I didn’t know,

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but…” He licked his lips. His eyes danced around, like somebody was about to leap from the morning shadows. He handed it to me. “Get out of here,” he said. “And remember what you said.” I nodded, took the paper and walked off. I waited until I’d gone about three blocks and was out of the line of sight from the building. Then I opened my hand. It was a simple piece of paper on which was written a single sentence. And if Lemansky was correct, besides a murdered girl, this was all the killer left behind. I read the sentence. Felt my breath catch in my throat. Right then I knew why Officer Lemansky was scared. I knew what my angle was. A chill of fear ran up my spine, similar to the one I felt last year when I was accused of murder. And I knew that Athena Paradis wouldn’t be the last victim.

5 I

was sitting in Wallace Langston’s office as he read a printout of the article. My palms were coated with sweat and my eyelids felt like they were being dragged down with two-ton weights. Evelyn had posted the text of my article at 4:22 a.m., holding it up just to confirm my source. When I told her the quote the killer had left at the scene, she paused. “Why do I recognize that line?” she asked. I took a breath before answering. “Because I wrote it.” The slip of paper Officer Lemansky gave me had one simple sentence on it. It read: The only difference between the innocent and the guilty is that the guilty are the only ones who believe in their cause. I had written that line several weeks after being cleared of the murder of John Fredrickson. When I was on the run, when the whole world saw me as a murderer, other than Amanda I was the only one who knew and believed in the truth. The article was in response to those who’d been so quick to pass

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judgment, including the Gazette’s own Paulina Cole. I was happy to hear when she left for the Dispatch. I couldn’t imagine going to work every day, sitting next to someone who printed such vileness without knowing the truth. When the world assumed I was guilty, they looked at me as a degenerate, someone to whom committing murder was justified. And now a killer had taken my words, used them to support whatever twisted reasoning goes through the mind of someone willing to steal an innocent life. The killer knew he was guilty. Only he didn’t care. He had a cause. Causes don’t simply end. Murderers don’t simply lose interest. There were more victims out there. “This came out well,” Wallace said, mainly to fill the silence. We both knew the copy wasn’t great, but contained all confirmed and pertinent facts and was as good as could be expected from a reporter running on Red Bull and a deadline. He put the papers down on top of a copy of the morning edition of the Dispatch. Wallace had it delivered every day, though I couldn’t remember him ever reading it. The headline read, HEIRESS WHACKED: Police Search For Sex Symbol Shooter. It was actually one of their more subtle headlines. “I give them ten points for alliteration,” I said. “‘Search For Sex Symbol Shooter.’ Almost poetic.” “Take off several thousand for subtlety,” another voiced chimed in. I turned around. Jack O’Donnell walked into the room, half a dozen newspapers under his arm. He looked well rested, energized. “Least someone around here caught forty winks,” I said. “I think I caught forty winks total my first five years on

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the job, don’t complain to me about sleep.” He took the papers from under his arm, and I recognized the running heads of what looked like the morning edition of every major paper in the metropolitan area, as well as a few nationals. He tossed them on Wallace’s desk one at a time, giving us a chance to read each headline. I wasn’t aware newspaper fonts could run that big. “You have no idea how much it cost us to dump our page one and get the Paradis story in there,” Wallace said. “None of them report anything substantial. That’ll come tomorrow. With any luck we’ll sell enough papers today to make up for the printing and shipping delays.” “Even in death Athena breaks the bank,” Jack said. “You know some asshole found a highball glass from last night that still has Athena Paradis’s lipstick on it? Bidding on eBay is up to ten grand. I’m thinking of joining the fray, resell the glass during the trial and retire.” “This case will never go to trial,” I said, a sick feeling in my stomach. “And why not?” asked Wallace. “Fools with a cause don’t go quietly. They don’t put their hands behind their back, and they don’t care about their Miranda rights. This guy’s in it until the end.” “Let’s hope you’re wrong,” Wallace replied. “Right now all we can do is our job. So let’s talk.” Jack flicked my ear as he walked by. “What, no iPod today?” I sighed, played along. “I usually take it off when I get to the office.” “Hard to concentrate when listening to Bee-yonk, right?” I didn’t correct him, frankly would have felt like an idiot telling him the correct pronunciation was Beyoncé. A few

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months ago, I made the careless mistake of going to the bathroom and leaving my iPod on my desk. The mistake wasn’t leaving it out in the open, but trusting someone like Jack to act like an adult. By the time I got back to my desk, Jack had scrolled through my entire playlist and taken votes from the entire newsroom as to which artists I should delete from the hard drive permanently. The results were tabulated, and for a week after that he would ask for the player to see if I’d complied. Finally I removed the offending songs, just to shut him up. According to Jack, any music created after 1986 should never be heard through my (or any other) speakers again. He said if not for the Dylan and Springsteen, he would have thrown the entire thing in the garbage. “Henry,” Jack said, his voice now without any condescension. “If you don’t think this case will go to trial you’re an idiot. Someone’s getting prosecuted, even if it takes a few cases to get the right suspect. Costas Paradis’s private jet is on its way to the city as we speak, and I can promise that he’s bringing hellfire and brimstone and a savings account large enough to be a continent unto itself. Whether it’s Shawn Kensbrook, the security staff at the Kitten Club, the killer himself, or Lord Zeus up on high, somebody’s getting locked away while the key is thrown in the ocean. Half a dozen tabloid hacks are writing first drafts of quickie books that will be on sale in your local grocery store within the week.” “Cynical much?” I said. Jack dismissed the question. “If you want to last in this business as long as I have, you’ll have the cynical alarm on High 24/7. Question everything. You wouldn’t be here right now if you hadn’t done that last year.” “So why did a line I wrote end up at a crime scene?” I asked. “That’s my question.”

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“Let’s hope it’s an eerie coincidence,” Wallace said. “That it doesn’t have some sort of meaning that plays into why Athena was killed.” “If this goes to trial,” Jack added with a smile, “we can always claim libel, say the killer used Henry’s quote out of context.” I absently scratched my ribs. “Now the question for you both is,” Wallace said, “where do we go from here? We’ve got the killer’s message. Jack, you check with the NYPD, see if Chief Carruthers has any suspects or leads.” “I want to talk to the ballistics department,” I said. “Jack, do you know anyone there you can hook me up with?” “Why ballistics?” Wallace asked. “Athena was killed by a high-powered rifle shot from a rooftop three blocks away, and the killer left a message he wanted to be found. This is as premeditated as it gets, and was executed with careful consideration. No doubt the murder weapon will fit into that. Then we can run a check on the gun, find the store he bought it at, go from there.” “Jack?” Wallace said. Jack scratched his beard. It looked a little darker than it had the last few days, the brown a little more, er, not gray. With our coverage of the Paradis murder, we were going to sell a lot of papers. Jack wanted to look his best in case there were any photo ops or interviews. And who was I to question the omnipotence of Just For Men? There was a beep alerting Wallace to an incoming e-mail. He clicked the mouse, eyes narrowing as he read. “Mayor Perez called a news conference for noon today. Costas Paradis will be in attendance.” I looked at Jack, who was staring at the screen, thinking. The fire was just starting to burn, and I felt it, too. “I want you both there,” Wallace said. “And I don’t care

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what you do or how you do it, get something different to run with tomorrow. I need angles here that won’t be covered by the other papers.” “Angle is my middle name,” Jack said. “Yesterday you told me it was Glenfiddich,” replied Wallace. “Mine is Shane,” I said proudly. They both looked at me. I wasn’t proud anymore. “I mean it’s Angle, too.” Jack shook his head. “Wine cooler. That’s your middle name. Get a good story and I’ll promote you to Zima.” “And Henry,” Wallace said, “if anyone asks about the quote the killer used, you have your ‘no comments’ at the ready. Am I correct in assuming you’re not hiding anything? That you have no reason to think this is anything but an awful coincidence?” “I swear I have no idea,” I said honestly. “Trust me, after last year I’d just as soon stay out of the spotlight as much as possible.” “Then let’s keep it that way. We have to assume the suspect used it simply because the quote was relevant, or that he has some serious bats flying around in his belfry.” “That might work better than a ‘no comment,’” Jack said. “Now get a move on,” Wallace continued. “I have no doubt there’ll be some fireworks at this conference. You won’t want to watch from the back row.”

6 P

aulina Cole sat at her desk, holding a warm cup in her hands. She took a sip. Coffee and Xanax. Better than toast and a runny omelet. She’d squeezed Dr. Shepberg’s name into an article naming the best psychiatrists in NYC and ever since then the prescriptions arrived in her mailbox once a month. Behind Paulina’s desk were half a dozen picture frames containing front pages pulled from the New York Dispatch. Stories she’d broken, papers so hot they’d sold out their print runs and been dissected on blogs around the world. Since she’d joined the Dispatch, the paper’s circulation had grown 1.5 percent, a number many tried to attribute to a new marketing campaign, but those in the know knew it was solely because of her. Ted Allen, the Dispatch’s publisher, had said as much during the last shareholders meeting, and promptly given her a ten percent raise. He said Paulina Cole represented the bold new direction the Dispatch would be taking into the twenty-first century, that despite all the perils facing the print industry, technology simply couldn’t compete with an oldfashioned nose for news. According to Allen, the Dispatch was tired of being the number two newspaper in New York. And come hell or high water (possibly both) they would even-

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tually best their number one enemy. Even if it meant simply hiring away their top reporters. That’s how he phrased it. Their enemy. This wasn’t business, this was war. The longer you stayed satisfied being number two the more likely you’d fall out of the race completely. Nobody remembered the guy who lost the election, the ex before meeting your soul mate. The second-best were forgotten, pulped. If you weren’t willing to kill to grab the lead, you deserved to get trampled. That was Paulina’s job; to do the trampling, to sell newspapers. And for all the battles waged between the two newspapers, the coverage of Athena Paradis’s murder could be the Dispatch’s Gettysburg. Athena was the most recognizable woman in the world, more than the president’s wife, more than Princess Diana (hell, most of Athena’s fans were too young to have even heard of Lady Di), even more than that lucky gal who scribbled the words Harry Potter on a notepad. The battles lines had been drawn. More newspapers were going to be moved during the Paradis investigation than any event save a terrorist attack. Of course Paulina could argue that more people had seen Athena’s reality show than had voted in the last election, so by sheer volume alone this was the biggest news story of the decade. Besides, the Lindbergh baby had never posed on the cover of her self-titled album wearing stockings and wrapped in a fire hose. Until three o’clock this morning, Paulina had been digging into the personal life of David Loverne, congressional candidate, philanthropist, father of Henry Parker’s ex-girlfriend Mya, and alleged keeper of somewhere in the vicinity of four mistresses. It was a cover story in the making. David was beloved. Tall, handsome, the kind of man other men looked

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up to and women wanted to look down upon. She was going to blow the whole thing wide open, expose the creep for who he really was. His fans and supporters would be demoralized. His detractors (yes, there were some) would eat it for breakfast. And every one of them would fork over their fifty cents to read it. Over the past week, Paulina had interviewed two women who claimed to have slept with Loverne, both within the past year. One dalliance occurred in a limousine after a stump speech, the other in an airplane flying to Dubai. Taking Loverne down would sell papers. Getting in another dig at someone close to Henry Parker was just icing on the cake. There was a knock on her door. “Come in,” she said. In walked Terrence Bynes, the Dispatch’s Metro editor. Paulina’s direct boss. The fact that he would lick between the subway railings if Paulina asked him to was implicit in their relationship. Bynes was wearing suit pants with cuffs an inch too long, and a blue work shirt that looked like it had been fermented with starch. His eyeglasses were too big, not to mention unnecessary, considering Paulina knew his last eye exam produced 20/19 vision. And she’d be willing to bet there was a rolled sock (or two) down his trousers as well. “I assume you read the Gazette this morning,” Bynes said. “Fucking online edition,” Paulina said, taking another sip, feeling that delicious warm tingle. “Read only by cheapos and kids without the attention span to click the ‘Next Page’ button. Their print edition didn’t have anything we didn’t, that’s all we should be concerned about.” “Tell that to Ted Allen,” Bynes continued. “The man is pissed. He thinks we got scooped, and he’s looking to point the finger.” “We did get scooped,” Paulina said. “But that’s like saying

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we got stabbed by a toothpick at the start of a knife fight. What Henry Parker wrote this morning won’t be a blip on the radar tomorrow after Perez’s press conference. So tell him if that finger goes anywhere near me I’m cutting it off.” Bynes smirked. “Why don’t you tell him that?” “Well, it’s your job, but I’d be happy to. I’ll e-mail him right now.” She pulled out her keyboard and began typing. Bynes placed his hand over the keys. “That was a hypothetical question,” he said. She stopped typing. “Don’t ever ask me a hypothetical question again, or I’ll hypothetically strangle you with your shoelace. I call every bluff I see. Remember that.” Bynes swallowed, flicked his eyes down to his wingtips. “So what do I tell Ted Allen? He’s pissed this Parker kid got to the cops before we could.” Paulina leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes. This Parker kid. This Parker kid. Her eyelids flew open. “This Parker kid is a good reporter. Give me pages four through seven tomorrow for coverage of the murder.” “That’s a lot of copy. Are you sure you’ll have enough to fill that space?” “Don’t ask me that again. I could give a rat’s ass what you do with pages eight, nine and sixty-nine. Oh, and get Tamara Finnerman to do a write-up of David Loverne’s speech at the Alzheimer’s event last night. When my story runs, I don’t want people thinking we’ve had it in for him. Tell her to use prose so syrupy and purple I’ll be able to see the Crayola logo. Tell Allen that between these two stories, the Gazette will be limping within weeks.” Bynes laughed, then wiped a loose dribble of saliva from his mouth.

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“I’m not going to tell him that. What, you think covering a story we’ve already been scooped on will suddenly have Wallace Langston quaking in his Doc Martens?” Paulina smiled at him, crossed her legs. “Every war begins with an opening volley. Parker’s scoop this morning was the Gazette’s opening volley. I’m not simply returning fire, I’m coming back with a Howitzer up their ass. You know my ex-husband was a state prosecutor. One thing I learned from him, other than that men are as useful as dirty bathwater, is that nobody remembers how you won, they remember if you won. We simply take what Parker has, know what he’s going to know, and make it our own. Henry’s a great reporter, but after last year he’s nervous, twitchy, and doesn’t want to rattle the cage any more than he already has. I have someone who’ll shadow him closer than his beard stubble, and I’ll be waiting to lay down the copy.” Bynes smiled. “I thought you said Finnerman was the one who wrote purple prose.” “Trust me,” Paulina said. “It’ll look better on paper.”

7 I

was walking toward city hall alongside Jack O’Donnell, nearly having to sprint to keep up. And his legs had an extra thirty years of mileage. I dialed Amanda, figured I’d say hi before radio silence. She picked up on the second ring. “Hey, hon, can’t talk for long, just wanted to say hi. I’m heading to the press conference with Jack. Think I can smell the mayor’s cologne a mile away,” I said into the cell phone. “Hey, babe. No problem,” she said. “I’m about to go into the library and I think they’ve starting arming the cell phone police with automatic weapons.” “Good thing you finally learned how to use the vibrate button.” Jack elbowed me. Amanda, I mouthed. He raised his eyebrows. Girlfriend. He opened his mouth to say ah. Then he ran his thumb across his throat. Cut it off. “Anyway, I’d better turn this off. Jack is giving me dirty looks. I’ll call you as soon as this circus is over.” “Is it a three-ring circus, or does Athena Paradis warrant four?” “You know, I think they might green-light the ever-elusive five-star circus. Just for Athena.” “The news ran video of Costas Paradis getting off his

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private jet this morning. I’ve never much sympathized with billionaires, but you have to feel for the guy.” I said nothing. Didn’t have to. “Give Jack my best. Knock the story out of the park, Henry.” “Will do,” I said. “Stay quiet.” I hung up. Jack was holding back a thin smile. “What?” He allowed a small chuckle. “Like two sweet jaybirds, you two,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind my taking amusement in the love rituals of the young and naive.” I eyed Jack’s hand, barren of any rings or jewelry other than a swank Omega wristwatch. I knew he’d worn a ring, years ago. He never showed any desire to discuss it. I took my press pass out of my pocket and looped the lanyard over my head. Jack did the same. We rounded the corner and immediately became two small fish in the biggest school I’d ever seen. There must have been five hundred members of the press corps standing outside of city hall. Dozens of cameras, many of them live, along with Brylcreemed reporters and onlookers peeking out of open office windows for blocks in every direction. Millions of people would be watching this conference, whether live or on the evening news. Which made our jobs near impossible. How do you find a shadowy corner when there are hundreds and thousands of eyes scanning every inch? We ducked under a rope and tried to push our way to the front. “Easier to dig to China,” Jack said. “Screw this. I don’t need to be close to hear Perez.” “He’ll have the text up on his MySpace page within an hour anyway.” “Perez has a MySpace page?” “Facebook, too. Wants to hit the young voters.” “Do young voters like him?” Jack asked.

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“I wouldn’t vote for him,” I replied. “A little too much selfpromotion for my tastes.” Jack pulled a pair of folding binoculars out of his pocket. He stared through them, peered along the dais and around the surrounding area. When he was done he passed them to me. I took in the scene. The marble steps leading to city hall were polished a gleaming white. The podium was empty, waiting for Mayor Perez and, I assumed, Costas Paradis. Three uniformed police officers stood on either side of the podium. They stood straight, arms at their sides, guns visible. I swung the binoculars from right to left. When I saw who was standing directly to the left of the podium, I nearly dropped the binoculars. “I saw him, too,” Jack said. “He’s not here for you. Be a professional.” “Professional,” I said, my mouth dry. “Right.” Standing to the left of the podium was Detective Lieutenant Joseph Mauser. One year ago, Detective Joe Mauser had chased me halfway across the country, shot me in the leg, and barely escaped with his life after taking three bullets in the chest. I had followed Mauser’s recovery over the months. Visited his guarded hospital room and was turned away by the very cops who’d wanted me dead before they found out the truth. After two months in the hospital—fully recovered, minus one spleen, two ribs and twenty pounds—Joe Mauser transferred from the FBI to the NYPD. He attributed the transfer as a tribute to his fallen brother-in-law and in-arms, John Fredrickson. The man whose death I was responsible for, indirectly or not. Mauser wanted to be closer to his sister, Linda, John’s widow. In various interviews, Mauser insinuated that he held no ill will toward me. That given the circumstances

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he would have defended his life and honor, as well. But a wound is a wound, no matter how it’s caused, and the simple fact was his brother-in-law would still be alive if not for me. Mauser had sold the book and film rights to his story for a reputed seven figures. He said the money wasn’t for him, but would feed his sister’s family, educate her fatherless children. If not for Mauser, my life wouldn’t have been saved by a beautiful stranger. The same woman who now shares my bed. I guess we could call it even. Mauser looked good, healthy and even a little tan. He looked like the kind of man who was proud to serve his city. And I was glad to finally be on his side. I could barely hear over the noise as reporters chirped into cell phones, cameras ran their feeds. Suddenly a hush came over the crowd and I saw Mayor Dennis Perez stride to the podium through the massive columns bracketing city hall. Walking alongside Mayor Perez was Costas Paradis. The normally confident man looked pale, tired. But looking through the binoculars, I could see the anger that burned for his murdered daughter. The mayor wore a striped gray suit and walked with a purpose. His mustache was neatly trimmed as always, but his eyes were bloodshot. He probably hadn’t slept since Athena died. And Costas wasn’t the kind of man to mourn. He was the kind of man whose grief turned to anger, whose anger turned to rage, and whose rage could scorch the earth. I just stood and hoped they found the killer before more families experienced that grief. The crowd grew quiet. Though the majority in attendance were paid to speak, discuss and bloviate as loud as humanly possible, they also knew that if they missed a single word they could miss a scoop, fall behind, give

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people a reason to pick up a paper or watch a newscast other than theirs. I thought about Wallace’s sign by the elevators. Then I looked at the sea of microphones and suits. Just like a marathon, a giant mass beginning as one. But that wouldn’t last. The good ones would break away. Mayor Perez stepped to the podium. Costas Paradis stood next to Perez, and I could sense the mayor’s discomfort, like a child forced to admit wrongdoing in front of an angry parent. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. His eyes traveled from right to left. Making sure he made eye contact with every camera he could. Give each station their half second of exclusive content. “At approximately one thirty-seven this morning, Athena Paradis was shot and killed as she was leaving a nightclub. This is a shocking and heinous crime, perpetrated by an individual whose depravity knows no bounds. At this very moment we have unleashed the very best men and women upon the crime scene to establish just who is responsible for Ms. Paradis’s death, as well as their motives in doing so. No stone will remain unturned, not a second will go by where Ms. Paradis’s murderer will have a chance to breathe.” Jack was scribbling in a notepad. I was watching their eyes. Mayor Perez. Costas Paradis. Joe Mauser. There was worry in them. Right then I knew they had nothing. The mayor continued. “The true test of a city is challenge. The test of a family is grief. In this investigation, we will grieve for the memory of Athena Paradis, but rise to the challenge of bringing her killer to justice.” “Second book,” Jack said, pen hanging from his mouth.

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“What?” “That line. From Perez’s second book. Just made himself another ten K in royalties right there.” I shook my head as Perez continued. “What we do know at this time is that the shooter is most likely a lone assailant, the murder weapon a high-powered rifle which was discharged from the roof of a building several blocks away from the club where Ms. Paradis was performing that evening. We have taken casts of footprints discovered at that rooftop, and are matching them with known offenders as we speak.” Bullshit, I thought. Officer Lemansky told me the rooftop was covered in gravel. Unless they developed some way to detect footprints in rocks, they’re throwing us a hollow bone. He continued. “We have many unfortunate witnesses to the crime itself, but as of yet nobody has come forward who has been able to positively identify the assailant.” At this point Costas Paradis moved a half inch closer. His eyes seemed to be burning a hole through Mayor Perez’s neck. The mayor swallowed. He held his hand up, index finger extended. “Let me assure you that the NYPD is using every available resource to find this heartless and soulless coward, and the NYPD will not rest until the assailant has been brought to justice.” Perez’s eyes became sorrowful and he lowered his head. “At this time I would like to express my sincerest condolences to the Paradis family. I have known Athena’s devoted father, Costas, for many years, and suffice it to say his daughter’s death is not only felt by the Paradis family, but is felt by his family and friends both in this city and around the world. Justice will be served.” Hotel Paradis, Paradis Park, Paradis Skating Rink, I thought. Not only was there a murderer loose, but there were

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millions, perhaps billions of dollars at stake. Maybe Perez should quote a few more lines from his book. Catching Athena’s killer was not only a moral and legal priority, but one the mayor needed to help pay for those campaign reelection ads with spiffy production values. Perez went on for another few minutes. He spoke a great deal but said very little. “I’ve seen mimes more eloquent,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “Listen, I’ve got a contact in the medical examiner’s office. As soon as this little soiree breaks up I’ll have him on the phone. I want you to talk to him before we file any copy.” “What do you want me to do?” “He owes me a solid. After you talk to him, I want you to go back and canvas the area around the Kitten Club. People don’t like talking to cops. Answering questions makes them feel like they’re being accused of something. Too many freaking Law & Order spin-offs. Anyway, tell them who you are. A newsman, their voice, the voice of the people. You make ’em believe it, they’ll let you hold their newborn.” “Got it.” At that moment, Mayor Perez said, “And now I’d like to turn the podium over to Police Commissioner Alan Bradley, who will answer further questions.” “Might be worth leaving now,” I said. “Get a head start.” “Not yet,” Jack said. “Leaving early is how you miss the big stuff.” Commissioner Bradley, a stocky bald man in his early fifties, shook hands with the mayor and Costas Paradis. He stepped to the podium with a look of gravity and sincerity. Then I noticed something strange. Joe Mauser was flinching. He brought his hand up to his eyes, as if shielding the sun. I took the binoculars, followed

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his line of sight. He was looking at a building across the way. Then I saw what he saw—a faint glimmer of light off of…something—and then all hell broke loose. Mauser dove to his left a millisecond before the air was shattered by a deafening crack. I saw a fountain of red explode by the podium, and suddenly hundreds of people were screaming and running and cursing and fleeing. I heard someone yell, “He’s been shot!” EMS workers sprinted up the stairs. I watched in slow motion detachment, arms and legs pummeling me as they flew past. A man and a woman in white knelt down beside a fallen person atop the stairs. Police had their guns drawn and were yelling into walkie-talkies. Their eyes were all looking up, guns drawn. At the rooftops. Where the gunshot had come from. I looked through the binoculars to get a better view of the carnage. I could see a group of cops ushering the mayor and Costas Paradis inside city hall. An ambulance was trying to get through the pandemonium but was having no luck. The cops were shaking, ready to fire at an instant’s notice. I saw the EMS crews working as fast as they could on the downed officer, but through the binoculars I could see one of them shake her head. Watching fingers of blood drip down the steps, I knew what she was thinking. This one can’t be saved. As they placed the cop on the stretcher, I increased the magnification. I could just make out the face. My breath left me. I dropped to my knees. Panting. Felt Jack’s hand on my shoulder. Felt the world swimming away. Saw the face again. Saw his brother in-law’s face. Both men lying in a pool of their own blood. The downed cop was Detective Lieutenant Joe Mauser.

8 She was lying on her back. Propped up against three pillows. One more across her chest. One more by her right arm. She felt warm, safe, comfortable. Henry made fun of her for this. Said she was building a fort every night.Yet when the lights went out, after Amanda had burrowed into her pillow castle, she would push the pillows aside and gently lay her head on his chest. She would listen to Henry breathe. Listen to his heart beat. She knew when he was thinking about a story—his heart beat a little faster. She knew if the day had been long and challenging, or fast and invigorating. All this from his heartbeat. She would glide her finger down his chest, tickling his side. She knew he was sensitive, but he never told her to stop. Sometimes she would run her finger along the scar where the bullet had come so close to ending his life. She knew that in some way she was responsible for that scar. For some reason, despite the pain it had caused Henry, she was glad it was there. She knew he was awake. His breathing was shallow. Henry’s eyes had sunk. His body looked as though it had been sapped of all energy, like one of those video game characters after some evil shaman sucks their soul right out of their body then yells something cheesy like “Fatality!”

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Another death. Reporters weren’t supposed to see lives end in front of them. Henry wasn’t off in a tank in Iraq. How much more could he take? Henry’s breathing had grown steadier. Maybe he had fallen asleep. She hoped so. And then the shrill noise of Henry’s cell phone broke the silence, and Amanda kicked herself for forgetting to change the ring tone. Henry didn’t stir, so Amanda reached over to the nightstand and picked it up. She expected to see Wallace Langston or Jack O’Donnell calling about some urgent scoop. But no, it was Mya Loverne. Undoubtedly calling again in the desperate and pathetic hope that her old boyfriend would return her affection. That some previously severed synapses would again begin firing. Amanda stared at the phone and felt a terrible pressure beginning to settle behind her eyes. She pressed and held the power button until the phone went dark. Then she gathered all the pillows, held them close to her chest and hoped sleep would arrive soon. For both of them.

9 T

he Boy sat on the bed. Elbows on his knees. Feet planted on the floor. He read the newspaper again. Third time he’d done so. Then he put it on the chipped wooden nightstand and turned off the light. He lay in the dark. He could feel his heart beating fast. It wasn’t just the thrill of the kill that did it, it was the beautiful anticipation. Then the memory of the blood. His hands still tingled, gravel still stuck in the treads of his shoes. Amazing how he could read about himself in the newspaper mere hours after the killing, the ink drying quicker than the blood. He thought about last week. He thought about the grave, that headstone he’d visited so many times, wanting to wrap his strong hands around the necks of all those idiots who’d stolen God knew how many marble replacements. It had gotten so bad that the graveyard proprietors had to construct a metal fence around the headstone. Didn’t matter much. They couldn’t afford good metal, and twice a year some kid would use a pair of eleven-ninety-nine wire cutters and steal it just the same. After visiting the grave for twenty years the Boy didn’t

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care about the headstone itself. All he cared about was the bones that lay underneath. The body that lay buried in that hard earth for over a century. People thought they knew the truth. They saw movies, read books, figured they knew everything. He was here to change that. Through blood and lead, they would know the truth, and they would know exactly why he died. The Boy’s legacy, and now he was being baptized in the blood of the damned. Every now and then he would bring a fresh bullet to the grave, dig a small hole with his hands and place the ammunition inside. It’s what He would have wanted—to be close to the bullets. Up until now, those bullets were the only link between them. Until Athena. Until that cop. Now blood linked them, and blood was thicker than lead. All those summers in the broiling sun, pretending to ignore his birthright. Watching that ungodly woman tarnish their family’s name with that demon. He got through the day because he knew eventually the day would come when he could take up the mantle. When he could finally finally finally come out from the darkness and show the world that the throne was his now. It had merely been waiting for the new blood to carry it into the new century. You’d think things would have changed in a hundred and thirty years, the Boy would say to the headstone. He would always say it out loud. He didn’t care who heard him. If he didn’t have the courage to take a few errant glances, he wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger when the time came. You’d think they’d have changed, but they haven’t. A hundred and thirty years and you’d be so sick of it you’d dust your guns off, brush all that dirt off your old, old bones and do what I’m doing. His hands and legs ached. The rifle had a mean kick. The Boy hadn’t gotten a chance to practice much with it, but the

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gun was every bit as true as he knew it would be. That gun had a reputation, and not the kind that came from some pussy who talked his own game up. This was the kind of rep that came through force, violence and blood. He looked around the room. Grime covered the walls, and he could hear insects scurrying behind the plaster. Nothing bothered him. He tapped the rifle with his fingers and thought about the next kill. He’d read the newspapers that morning. Read the ongoing coverage of Athena’s murder. Only today it was sparring for coverage with the murder of Joe Mauser. He was surprised to see that he’d killed the cop rather than the mayor. But the more he read about this cop, the better he felt. He read how the cop tracked down and nearly killed an innocent reporter named Henry Parker. The same Henry Parker whose words the Boy had used before killing Athena Paradis. The Boy read about how the death of officer Joe Mauser’s brother-in-law had driven Mauser over the edge, how he relentlessly pursued Parker across the country before nearly dying at the hands of the real killer. And even though the Boy’s bullet hadn’t been meant for Mauser, fate was on his side. Joe Mauser was just as guilty as the rest of them. The Boy looked out the window at the night sky, the beauty that was so close, and the beauty that he would help create. Then he closed his eyes, dreamt of blood, blood that purified, blood that seeped back into an old, old grave. He dreamt that he was lying in the grave next to the man whose legacy he was carrying on, and the Boy slept in peace.

10 I

’d only met with a medical examiner once in my career as a reporter, and that was back in Oregon when I covered a B and E that turned ugly when the home owner confronted the burglar. The home owner was stabbed twice in the chest, the knife stolen from his own bedroom. The ME confirmed the murder weapon was some fancy German blade, which the victim had bought on the black market. I ended up uncovering an unauthorized dealer ring in Portland, and was subsequently nominated for a Payne journalism award. The ME in Portland was a woman in her midforties, professional as hell, and willing to part with any and all information I needed for my story. From that encounter I assumed most MEs were similarly professional. But when I met Leon Binks, New York County Medical Examiner, behind the rusty Dumpster on Thirty-first and First, let’s just say it wasn’t quite the professionalism I was hoping for. Leon was wearing blue jeans and an unbuttoned work shirt, both dirty and disheveled. My guess was they were spare clothes for the times he had to run out and meet people behind Dumpsters. He was a fairly young man, mid to late thirties, with a wisp of a mustache and hair in desperate need of some Pert Plus.

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He rubbed his hands together as he spoke, and I wondered what sort of compulsion that came from. “So you know Jack,” Binks said, more of a statement of fact than a question. “I work with him at the Gazette,” I replied. Jack had called Binks and told him to meet me as soon as possible. Didn’t ask Binks. Told him. I wondered what sort of coverage Jack had given—or shielded—to have the New York City medical examiner wrapped around his little finger. “Good guy, O’Donnell,” Binks said, his hands rubbing rhythmically. “Yeah, he is.” I waited for Binks to continue. “Had a lot of good times with him,” Binks said. “Well, not good times, but good conversations. Like he’s always been a good egg with me, a good egg. I figure any friend of Jack’s has gotta be a friend of mine.” “That’s right,” I said. “So, Leon, if I can call you that…” “You can call me Binky,” he said. “S’what my friends do, anyway.” “Right. So…Binky…you’ve done the initial on Joe Mauser?” Binky nodded. “You’d be correct. Listen, Henry.” Binky leaned in close. I could smell chemicals. Iodine and cheap aftershave. “Did Jack tell you about that…thing?” “Uh…” “I get it, you’re playing dumb. It’s okay, better you don’t answer so neither of us have to lie. You know in case anyone comes asking.” No need to tell the Binkster that I wasn’t playing dumb, since I had no idea what he was talking about. “Just tell Jack I appreciate it, and so does my wife. I promise the bite marks will clear up and we’ll be careful not to go out in public next time we want to role play.”

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“Yeah, anyway, let’s talk about Mauser.” “Right,” Binky said, winking. “Let’s. Officer Mauser suffered from a single gunshot wound fired from a highvelocity rifle.” “I knew it,” I said. “Knew what?” “High-powered rifle,” I said. “I know more about guns than I’d like to.” “Really? Well, would you like to tell me the rest of the autopsy? Please, go right ahead.” Binky folded his arms across his chest petulantly. Finally he said, “May I continue?” “Please, didn’t mean to interrupt.” “No apology necessary. Anyway, the bullet entered Officer Mauser’s chest and the left subclavian artery, causing a traumatic aortic rupture.” “Which means…” “Which means Officer Mauser never had a chance.” I wiped my brow, took this in. Mauser wasn’t the target of that bullet. This much was clear. Dozens of news crews had caught the whole speech and murder on tape, and a split second before the gun went off, Mauser dove in front of Mayor Perez. Gave his life in the line of duty. “The bullet then lodged in one of Officer Mauser’s vertebrae, where I extracted it this morning. The bullet was turned over to ballistics for examination.” “Can you tell me anything about the bullet itself?” “Hey, Sherlock, I work at the coroner’s office, not ballistics.” Again I stayed silent. Hoping maybe Binky thought himself an amateur Man With No Name. “It was pretty big,” Binky finally volunteered. “Like how big?” “Inch and a half, two inches long,” he said. “Bullet was ob-

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viously distorted but I can’t say for sure. Caused a whole lot of damage, whoever took that shot wasn’t screwing around, wasn’t looking to wing anyone. Even if the bullet had somehow miraculously missed the aorta, it shattered two surrounding vertebrae and severed Mauser’s spinal cord. Guess we can be thankful the guy didn’t suffer. I work a lot of GSWs, but I can’t recall pulling a bullet this size from many victims.” “So we have some psychopath running around New York with a high-powered rifle and damn good aim,” I said. Binky rubbed his hands together and nodded. “Funny thing is,” he said, his tone of voice anything but humorous. In fact, there seemed to be an edge of fear. “I’ve worked in the examiner’s office nearly twelve years and I don’t recall ever seeing a gunshot wound from that caliber weapon.” “Really,” I said, that fear seeping into my veins, too. “Most GSW victims that end up at the hospital or morgue are from .22 or .38 caliber bullets. Handguns, stuff you get on the street. But not this. This is a hard-core rifle, my friend. Kind you might hunt animals with. Kind of gun you only need one shot with, ’cause that shot counts.” “No shit,” I said. “None at all. Makes you wonder what kind of psycho this city’s got loose.” “Yeah,” I said. “Makes you wonder.”

11 I turned my key in the lock, unsure whether I hoped the apartment would be empty or not. Before I could see the whole room I smelled perfume and knew Amanda was home. She was sitting in an armchair reading a book. When she saw me her eyes picked up and the book clapped shut. She slowly rose from her chair, came over to me and wrapped me up in her arms. I laid my head on her shoulder and breathed in. She looked me in the eyes and said, “If I had to guess, your day could have gone better.” I nodded. Took my jacket off and tossed it on a chair. Untied my shoes and kicked them off. Went over to Amanda and knelt down, put my head against her stomach. Soon I felt her fingers running through my hair, my scalp tingling as she pressed harder. I stood up, leaned in and kissed her. At first she seemed reluctant, then leaned in harder. Her hand was on the back of my head, pressing my lips against hers. I lost myself in it, felt her body lean toward me. Then I pulled away. “What is it?” she said. I looked at her, embarrassed. “Just hard to see these things happen. You know, and not be affected at all.” “That cop who was killed?” she said. “Mauser.”

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“Yeah. You know he was the one who last year…he almost killed me.” “I know,” Amanda said softly. “He came to my house. Pointed a gun at you.” “Thing is, I never blamed him,” I said. “If I’d been in that kind of situation, thought someone had murdered my family, I would have gone just as far as he did.” “Henry…” “He was a good cop,” I said, anger rising. “He didn’t deserve to go down like some animal.” “What do you mean?” “Whoever shot him, they’re some sick bastard.” I took out my cell phone. Dialed Curt Sheffield’s number. “Sheffield,” he said. “Curt, it’s Henry Parker.” “Hey, man. Guess this doesn’t mean you’re hiding under a rock.” “I don’t think I’d fit under a rock right now. Listen, we need to meet up. I talked to the medical examiner today, I think we can help each other.” “Name the time and place. But hey, Henry, be careful. Word’s gotten around our friend Paulina Cole’s been digging a little bit, asking questions about Mya Loverne, about your relationship. Don’t know if she’s going after you, but nothing she touches stays clean, know what I’m saying.” I cursed under my breath. “Screw her,” I said. “I would if my lady wouldn’t wear my balls for earrings. Cole’s not a bad-looking older woman. Wonders of Botox, I guess.” “Yeah, right. I need to know if you’ve heard anything about the ballistics analysis. Two deaths from what looks

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like sniper attacks, I’m willing to bet my bonus the same ammo and gun was used in both Mauser and Athena Paradis’s murders.” “Don’t be stupid, Henry, you know I can’t just give out information Mayor Perez hasn’t declared open for public consumption.” “Come on, Curt, you know the Dispatch is probably writing checks right now to cops and anyone else who can answer that question. Do you really want Paulina Cole and her BS responsible for the first impression of millions?” “Watch your damn mouth,” Curt said. “Those are my boys you’re dissing.” “I’m sorry, man, but you know I wouldn’t say it just to make conversation.” “No,” he said reluctantly. “Listen, I got foot patrol duty tomorrow in Midtown. Carruthers wants my ass as public as possible. Guess they figure enough stuffy suits see me they might encourage their kids to sign up for the academy. Anyway, meet me on Fifty-second and Fifth tomorrow at five when my shift ends. Something else you should know.” “What’s that?” “They found another note. Same as before, taped to the roof where the sicko took his shot from at city hall.” “Jesus Christ, what’d it say?” “Not over the phone, man. I’ll see you tomorrow.” “I’ll be there. And Curt, I appreciate it. Really. We need to grab a drink soon. No business.” “Sure, Jimmy Breslin, no business my ass.” “I’m serious, none.” “In that case, I hear a bottle of Stoli Raspberry calling my name,” he said. “And bring your corporate card, of course. You know, in case I get the munchies.”

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Sheffield hung up. I looked over at Amanda. The book was on her lap. I knew she heard the whole conversation. “He sounded good,” she said. “Always does.” “Are you worried about Paulina?” I thought for a moment. Paulina had done her absolute best to ruin my reputation last year. I knew she had it out for me, but still wasn’t sure if the vitriol was real or just a ploy to boost her career. “The same way you worry about gum disease or cancer,” I said. “You can brush your teeth and eat broccoli every day, but if it’s going to fuck up your life it’s going to fuck up your life.” “I don’t want anyone to do that,” she said. “Hey,” I said, wrapping my arms around her. She returned the gesture. “Whatever anyone does to me, you counteract it. You’re my counterbalance, babe.” I kissed her, but knew her mind was elsewhere.

12 Amanda tucked her hands into her peacoat as she walked down the street. Henry had ordered a half mushroom pie from the pizza joint down the block (the one they probably kept in business). She’d told him she would pick up the pizza while she stepped out to grab some female products. Beautiful thing, those female products, as they could preempt any further questions. The night was still cool, the remnants of spring still hanging on. Soon summer would come, and New York summers could be brutal. Damn Al Gore, guy was right all along. Maybe he really did create the Internet, too. She thought about Henry, their relationship. It was still a relatively new thing, still exciting, but neither of them really knew what lay around the corner. They’d been dating steady for nearly a year, though for the life of her she couldn’t remember an official start date, other than the first day Henry introduced her as his girlfriend. It’d been a surprise but a pleasant one. After he was released from the hospital, everything just seemed to happen. Not that she had any problem with it—it felt good introducing him, holding his hand at night, saying the word boyfriend and knowing it meant more than some silly schoolgirl thing.

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For years, Amanda didn’t trust anybody. Not the nuns who ran the various orphanages she was shuttled between as a little girl, not the boys who claimed they liked her then split when the bra clasp remained fastened. Even Lawrence and Harriet Stein, the perfectly nice oatmeal couple who finally gave her a home, had a hard time earning any trust from their adopted daughter. And it still hadn’t fully come. She was amazed at the ease in which Henry settled into their relationship. She moved in with him just months after they met and he adapted like a dried fish being put back in water. He was romantic, honest, sincere. Even about the hard things. Mya. His father. He asked questions about her job, her family. He made her feel like she mattered. For Henry, the process seemed purifying. For Amanda, the process was much more difficult. She’d shared beds with boyfriends, made dinner for special guys and on some lucky nights had it made for her. But she’d never shared a laundry hamper. She’d never gone to work only to come home and see the same person she’d gone to sleep with. It was a challenge, and some nights, all she wanted was space that their one-bedroom could not provide, all she wanted to do was scream, pull the notebooks from storage and wander the streets taking stock of everyone she came across. But then she’d look at Henry. Sitting at his desk, reading a book or a newspaper. Writing on a notepad. She’d read his bylines in the Gazette and feel her heart swell with pride. And she would look at her man and smile, and he would smile back, and then Henry would come over and kiss her on the cheek and go right back to work. Henry had been in a serious relationship. Mya. It was as serious as most college relationships went. It wasn’t hard, Amanda figured, to move from one relationship to another. The person changes, but the habits carry over. He’d shared a

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bed. Shared a hamper. Amanda supposed she could be thankful he wasn’t awkward. But part of her wished they were both experiencing the doubts and fears for the first time, together. Amanda’s sense of trust seemed to come organically. Funny, since the very first thing Henry ever did was lie to her. He lied about his name to save his life, posed as someone else. But only on the surface. She could tell, from the moment they met, what kind of person he was. Maybe it was years of keeping journals, sizing up people in a quick glance. Because one thing Amanda always had a keen eye for was kindness. And in Henry she found that. She knew the last year had eaten away at him. In between recovery from his wounds, the subsequent media frenzy, and then his attempt to settle back into a tenuous routine. Over the last few days, the sanctity of that routine had been threatened. Two horrible murders, one a man who, just twelve months ago, wanted nothing more than to kill him. She knew the guilt he still felt over John Fredrickson’s death. Stroked his hair when he had nightmares. Even though Henry hadn’t pulled the trigger, a family had been torn apart. That wasn’t something you got over in a year. When she saw that Athena Paradis’s murderer had used a line written by Henry, again she feared that his work would endanger his life. Everything pointed to it being a terrible coincidence. Henry didn’t want to dwell on it, and except for a brief conversation that night it had been dropped. She couldn’t help but sit a little closer to him. Call him a few extra times a day. Just to make sure he was safe. And now this witch, Paulina Cole, threatening to reenter his life. So she decided to do what any good girlfriend would do. Only she’d get more enjoyment out of it than most.

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Amanda picked up a pay phone at the corner. She was twelve blocks away from their apartment. It would do. She dialed the operator. Asked to be transferred to the main desk at One Police Plaza. When an operator picked up, she asked to be transferred to the press secretary. It rang twice, and was answered by a man with a high-pitched voice and wonderful enunciation. “I’m calling in regards to the recent murders of Athena Paradis and Detective Joe Mauser,” Amanda said. “I’m a reporter, and I’d like to speak to Chief Louis Carruthers for a story I’m writing. It’s of the utmost importance, so I’d appreciate if you’d connect me right this instant.” “Ma’am, all official statements regarding the murders of Ms. Paradis and Detective Mauser have been released, and are available on our website. If you need further information, you are invited to submit your queries and I will get the appropriate responses for you as soon as possible.” “Don’t you ma’am me,” Amanda said, affecting her best and bitchiest tone. Damn, this was fun. “You tell whoever your pansy-ass supervisors are, those pussy-eating faggots and butt pirates, and that spic mayor of yours who panders to all the kikes in city hall, you tell them that this is Paulina Cole of the New York Dispatch and I’ll be damned if I let some queer tell me what I can and can’t have access to. Now connect me to Carruthers or I’ll send someone down there to snip your balls from your sack.” Amanda smiled at the click and dial tone. She checked her watch. The pizza would be ready in less than ten minutes. Screw it. She still had time to call the mayor’s office.

13 T

he Boy looked at his rifle. Admired the straight grain walnut stock, well preserved and polished. This was a gun that had served well and been loved accordingly. Thank God he’d been able to free it from that glass prison, from all the idiot gawkers who never felt the power the gun accorded. With this gun, he was carrying on a legacy over a hundred years old, and every time he clicked the set trigger he felt the power of death over life. So far the gun had been exactly what he’d hoped. Accurate and powerful. He hated how stupid most people were when it came to these guns, ignorant folk who assumed that the rifles of this kind that they saw in the movies were the real McCoy. Truth was, in the movies they usually used later models that were deemed more attractive. Only folks who could tell their ass from a cartridge chamber knew the truth. The Boy was being true to the legend, true to his heritage. And soon one more would fall. And now he sat on the bed, gazing at the weapon that had won so many battles, claimed so many lives. He heard a scuffling outside. He made out two voices: male and female. The walls in the hotel were about as thick as linen,

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and he could hear every nearby squeak like it was right next to him. The people seemed to be negotiating. The man’s voice was eager. A little too eager. The woman was talking slowly. The Boy could feel his blood begin to rise, his fingers grinding against the wood stock of the rifle. Those two outside, they had no idea how close they were to death, that the person less than ten feet away could snuff them out faster than it would take to exchange currency. But he couldn’t. He had to get the rage out, let it dissipate. He couldn’t end the rampage before it had barely begun. He was strong, powerful, had that blood running through his veins. The only thing that could stop him was stupidity. He heard her mention a dollar amount. The man said, “Oh hell, yes” loud enough for the grimy bastard at the front desk to hear it. “Told you I looked like her,” he heard her say. “No doubt, you got an ass like Athena Paradis,” he responded. That made the Boy smile. “Just…just let me call you Athena. Please, baby.” She didn’t say a word, but the moan of pleasure said it all. They unlocked a door, slipped inside and closed it. Five minutes later, the Boy felt his bed beginning to shake. He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Fixing this nuisance would be relatively easy and painless, but nothing positive could be gained from it. There were more important homes for his lead. He took a deep breath, then turned his gaze from the rifle to the magazine splayed out in front of him. He eyed the man whose photograph lay within its pages. He was portly, with graying hair that cascaded in waves past his ears, a gut reserved for men who’d lived their later years in a state of complacency rather than diligence. His half-

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cocked smile was one of condescension. His air was that of a royal walking among subjects who should consider themselves fortunate to lick the shit off his heels. He was one more battle for the Boy to win, boldly and violently. He knew the man’s schedule, when he arrived, when he left, when he ordered lunch, when his secretary came home with him, when he’d grown tired of her and when his children were forced to visit. He knew the exact moment it would happen, knew where the security cameras were positioned and knew he would be gone right as the fear sank in. Athena Paradis was a masterstroke. He started the crusade by felling the biggest prize. The cop was a mistake, but looking into the man’s background it was a mistake prompted by fate. The cop—Mauser—had shot Henry Parker last year, an innocent man. The same Henry Parker who wrote the quote the Boy had left up on that rooftop. He wondered how Parker felt, if, like the Boy, he was glad Mauser was dead. The Boy looked at the gun one last time, could picture the bullet crashing through a helpless skull, and went to sleep.

14 P

aulina’s telephone rang. She hesitated answering it, focusing instead on the morning edition of the Dispatch spread in front of her. Her hand gripped a red pencil. She was already worked up from having to explain to Bynes that a prank caller had impersonated her. That even though she thought Louis Carruthers was an idiot she wasn’t stupid enough to spew a racist diatribe to a receptionist. She was making small notes in the margins, passages that could have read better, accusations that could have been a little more salacious without bordering on libel. The article on Joe Mauser’s murder had been written by some hack in Metro. Paulina’s piece on Athena was on page three. Mauser got page seven. In the kingdom of selling newspapers, heroic cops were cow shit compared to rich heiresses. Way it went, and Paulina didn’t think twice. She looked at her caller ID, recognized the area code, figured if she didn’t pick it up he’d just keep calling back. She picked it up. “What?” “Miss Cole, it’s James.” “Hi…James.”

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“Hi?” Hi as a question. As if the word would offend her. James Keach was a junior reporter at the Dispatch. About five foot ten, two hundred and ten cookie-dough pounds, with razor’s-edge-parted hair that looked ready to recede the moment anyone said anything nasty about it. Just two years out of J-School, James never left the newsroom, followed reporters around like a beagle awaiting a biscuit, and was generally more of a nuisance than anyone you didn’t either sleep with or work for had a right to be. The kid had pulled a solid C+ average, but his father was golfing buddies with Ted Allen and apparently promised to give Allen an unlimited supply of mulligans at Pebble Beach if his son was given a shot to learn the ropes. James didn’t seem so much eager to learn the ropes as he did to simply climb halfway up and hang on for dear life. Paulina had given James his very first assignment, which, she stressed, was every bit as important as any story she was working on that year. Seeing as how he’d spent every previous waking moment peeking around the watercooler in the hopes of overhearing gossip, she knew offering Keach a bone would make him salivate. So last week, while laying out her eventual hatchet job on David Loverne, she decided to bring James into the fold. She wore her highest heels that day, a low-cut blouse, and a sweet new perfume called Sugar. James would have driven a lawn mower to Antarctica to report on penguin migration that day. His assignment, she told him, was to shadow Henry Parker twenty-four hours a day. Find out where he goes when he’s not at home or at the office. Find out who he speaks with and what they speak about. Find out who his friends and enemies are, what he has for breakfast, whether he wears matching

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socks, everything. She wanted to tie Parker into the Loverne piece, show how a combination of her father’s philandering and Parker’s snubbing drove poor Mya Loverne over the edge. For years, Mya had been the consummate politician’s daughter. Bright, attractive, never a hair mussed or sentence misspoken. She got good grades, and never got into trouble. Her life had taken a terrible detour when she was attacked by a man who broke her jaw during an attempted rape. Mya fought him off, but she had never been the same. Paulina attributed this to her disintegrating family and love life, her dreams vanishing in a puff of lies. And so far James was everything she wanted in a bloodhound: loyal, dependent and weak. If reporting didn’t work out, he’d make a hell of a peeping Tom. Hell, just yesterday Paulina learned that Henry took his coffee with skim milk and three Splendas. Not exactly front-page material, but Keach was getting close. “So, James, calling to shed light on more of Parker’s dietary habits?” “Oh, no, Miss Cole, nothing like that.” He paused. “So how are you this morning?” She rolled her eyes. “I’m just fine, James. Skip the pleasantries.” “Right. No more pleasantries. Sorry about that, I…” “James.” “Right. Anyway, I wanted to let you know that I followed Parker when he left his apartment this morning. He made one call, then right after that another call came in. Then he went into the Gazette and I lost him. Maybe I’ll see if I can get a temp ID, get into the building…” “That’s all right, James, your daddy doesn’t need you

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getting arrested. Who was the first call to?” Paulina chewed the swizzle stick from her coffee, wondering if snorting the Xanax would make it take faster. “I didn’t catch everything, but the guy’s first name was Curtis. Parker said something about them meeting up later this afternoon. They sounded tight.” Lovers? Paulina wondered. That’d be a hell of a story. “And who called him right after?” “No last name, but at one point he called her Mya. And from the sound of it Parker didn’t sound happy to hear from her. Cut her off pretty quick.” The straw fell from Paulina’s mouth. A smile spread over her lips. Mya Loverne. Paulina knew that after his acquittal, Henry had broken up with Mya for a new airhead named Amanda Davies. Tossing aside his former love. Apparently, the goods weren’t so happy to be tossed aside. Paulina had despised Henry Parker the moment she met him. Given a cushy job by Wallace Langston despite the experience of a fetus. And to top it off, the court jester himself, Jack O’Donnell, took the kid under his wing. Paulina had sweat blood and tears over her ink for years, and Henry was being groomed as the heir apparent. The newsman of the twenty-first century whose balls had barely dropped. And either directly or subversively, Paulina swore to be the wrecking ball that tore it all down. And if she happened to take down the Gazette with it, hell, that wouldn’t be such a bad morning. “James, you just made my coffee taste better.” “Oh, that’s swell, Miss Cole, and again I hope you know how much I appreciate your trusting me with this assignment. I’m…wait, Parker’s moving. I’ll call you back when I get anything new.”

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“You do that, Jamesy, you do that.” “Hey, Miss Cole?” James said apprehensively. “Do you think I can file expense reports for my breakfast? The bagels at this place are like three bucks each.” “Not a chance, Jamesy. Talk to you later.” She hung up.

15 I rounded the corner and saw him standing at a street vendor, paying for coffee and a muffin and waiting for change. “Make that two coffees,” I said. “My friend here will take his with twelve sugars,” Curt Sheffield said. The vendor looked at me like I’d asked for a side of pork loin. “That’s a lot of sugar, man.” “Three Splendas,” I said. “I thought cops weren’t allowed to lie.” “That’s to suspects and witnesses. Not reporters. In fact, that’s encouraged.” Curt took his change. I watched in awe as he inhaled the muffin in three bites. “I think I’ve seen the same thing happen with boa constrictors. I bet if I look closely I can see a muffin-shaped protrusion in your uniform.” “Lay off, I haven’t eaten since breakfast. You know at first I liked the idea of being the NYPD’s poster boy, but you can’t catch a break on the streets. Parents introducing their kids to me like I’m walking around in a Mickey Mouse costume or something.”

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“If Mickey carried a loaded Glock.” He licked the crumbs from his fingers. “And aren’t you guys supposed to eat donuts?” Curtis sipped his coffee, wiped some crumbs from his mouth. He nodded, said, “Let’s go,” through a mouthful, and led me down the block. It was a cool afternoon, the streets lined with people preparing for the commute home. “So tell me about the note,” I said. “What, no foreplay?” “Not when two people have been killed.” “That’s our job to deal with,” Sheffield said. “You write about it, remember? That shit last year don’t make you Dick Tracy.” “You’re right, but you also know I’m one of the few guys in this town who’ll give you a fair shake.” Curt sipped his coffee. “Word is Harvey Hillerman is hard up on Wallace to raise circulation. Says the Dispatch is growing and you’re shrinking worse than my old man after joining the polar bear club.” Harvey Hillerman was the owner of the Gazette, and perpetually at war with the tabloid tactics of the other papers in town. But it was hard to keep the public’s interest with payroll scandals when the Dispatch could just take a shot of Athena Paradis in a bikini, slap it on the front page and match your circulation rate. “It’s not my job to worry about Hillerman.” “It’s your job to make sure you have a job, paisan.” “You know you’re black, right?” “What, paisan is reserved for Italians? Screw that.” We walked toward Sixth Avenue. “So what have you got?” I asked. “Well, the ballistics report came back. I’ll tell you, the pressure on Perez is unreal. Costas Paradis is watching every move he makes with a magnifying glass, and he’s holding that

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glass up to the sun. Man’s got eyes and ears from every lawmaker to every sewer grate in the city.” “His daughter was killed, what do you expect?” “Carruthers has instituted mandatory overtime every day this week,” Sheffield continued. “They have undercovers staking out every major nightclub, patrolmen inspecting every rooftop within line of sight. They have us watching any celebrity that goes anywhere after midnight. Problem is we don’t know what we’re looking for. Not to mention we’re all watching our backs after Joe got killed.” I looked at the ground. “Don’t let it get to you. Guys in the department don’t hold a grudge for the most part. And the guys that do hold grudges are all old school, the kind the department keeps on a tight leash because they might have had ties to Mike DiForio’s crew. Carruthers knows Fredrickson was dirty, that he was taking money from that Tony Soprano wannabe. Until DiForio got barbecued, that is.” “When you say guys don’t hold a grudge ‘for the most part,’ what’s that, like fifty percent? Ninety?” Sheffield toed the cement. Then he looked at me. “Not gonna lie, bro, there’s definitely some bad blood. Fredrickson might have been dirty, but he went back a long way. The bad ones always have friends and there are always other people who covered their asses. Joe Mauser, though, he was a good cop. It’s just a cumulative effect of what’s happened to that family.” “What do you think?” I asked. “Me? Shit. I wouldn’t be here right now if I held a grudge. Fact is, city needs you on this story a whole lot more than it needs you digging up celebrity tampons to pad Hillerman’s bottom line. Plus I like your stuff. Tired of reading news

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reports that read like they were written by fuckers who are stuck on typewriters and Geritol.” “I appreciate that.” “Appreciate it in private. I’m happy to give you dirt so it doesn’t end up in Cole’s witch cauldron. But after this, I gotta be a ghost, man.” I waited for him to continue. “So ballistics confirmed the same caliber shot was used to kill Athena Paradis and Joe Mauser.” “No big shock there,” I said. “No, we figured it was the same sick son of a bitch. But they were surprised to find out the caliber bullet our man used.” “Unusual?” “I’d say .44-40 magnum rounds.” Curt waited a moment. He expected my jaw to drop, but I must have slept through my NRA 101 course. “Why’s that surprise you?” “Nobody uses .44-40 ammunition these days. Just an impractical caliber to use, on both sides of the good guy/bad guy coin.” “Why’s that?” “Magnum rounds are large, man. Heavy velocity, heavy impact. The recoil on those things will knock you on your ass. Forget everything Dirty Harry said, any cop who wants to be able to get off a second round in the same zip code would be an idiot to carry around a magnum. Only people who use it are idiot cons who think it looks pretty, but any perp who knows anything about weapons would prefer something lighter.” “Idiots don’t kill women with a single shot from a hundred yards out,” I said. “No. That takes a different kind of mental defect.” “So what are magnum rounds used for?” I asked. “Hunting, mostly,” Sheffield said. “Got an uncle, lives out

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in Montana, goes big game hunting using magnum rounds. Got a black bear head on his mantel used to scare the shit out of me and my sister growing up. It’s a good caliber for up to a hundred and fifty yards, after that the bullet is too heavy to maintain its accuracy.” “The killer shot both Athena and Joe Mauser from within two hundred yards.” “Right.” “Further reduces his idiocy quotient. Obviously the killer is smart enough to know his range.” “Question is,” Sheffield said, “why would anyone use magnum rounds for that kind of sniper shooting? Only an idiot would try to kill a person from far away using a magnum round. .22s are lighter, faster and more accurate. Not to mention easier to get. I’m up there on the roof? I’m using .22s.” “Unless there’s a reason for using magnum rounds,” I said. “Whoever killed Mauser and Athena planned the murders out. They knew Athena was going to be at the Kitten Club, and they knew the setup outside city hall well enough to position themselves for a shot. You don’t go through that kind of trouble and then randomly pick a gun and bullet that might separate your shoulder with the recoil.” “It is sexy ammo,” Curt said, rather offhandedly. “Magnum.” We continued walking, both processing the information. Powerful, short range, heavy, high velocity. Sexy. “Wait,” I said. “What do you mean it’s sexy?” “Look, I’m not saying you’ll find it at Victoria’s Secret…” “Come on. The killer chose this ammo for a reason. Why does someone choose magnum ammunition over something more practical? Especially when they have everything else planned to a T?” “Well,” Curtis said. “Dirty Harry made magnum ammo

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cool. Forget which one of the movies it was, but he used .44 caliber special loads, which are lighter and don’t have the same recoil. Funny thing is they didn’t actually use a magnum while shooting the movie, they used—” “Come on,” I said, impatiently. “What else?” “Well, magnum ammo is probably the one ammunition that’s actually known in pop culture. Ever see that movie, Winchester 73?” I shook my head. “Great flick. James Stewart and Shelley Winters. Anyway, the Winchester is commonly referred to as ‘The Gun that Won the West.’ Most popular rifle, probably ever, kind of a folk legend. The Winchester uses .44-40 magnum rounds.” “No shit,” I said. “Winchester, huh?” “Winchester.” “Think there’s a chance our killer might have used a Winchester on Athena and Joe?” “It’s a possibility, man, but the Winchester plant shut down a few years ago. It’s not even called Winchester these days, some conglomerate took it over. Probably called GunTex or something stupid. And trust me, nobody uses Winchester rifles anymore. They went out with the dodo and bellbottoms.” “Some people think bell-bottoms are hip,” I said. “Hey, what you and your girl do is between the two of y’all.” “Yeah, but maybe there’s someone out there who thinks Winchesters are the new black. Or at least has a reason for using one.” “Well, I can’t imagine there are a whole lot of working ones left, so you got yourself a lead there, Maureen Dowd.” “And the note,” I said. “You told me another note was left at the scene again.” “No, I didn’t,” Curt said.

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“You did, asshole, give it.” Curt looked around, his eyes narrowing. “This is some creepy stuff, man. Hard to get something like that out of your head.” “Do you have a copy of it I could take?” I asked. “Nah. I didn’t need one. You don’t forget something like that.” “What did the note say?” Curt stopped, seemed to think for a moment, then carefully spoke. “It said, ‘People thought me bad before, but if ever I should get free, I’ll let them know what bad means.’” “I’ll let them know what bad means,” I repeated. “I didn’t write that.” “He used a line from one of your articles after shooting Athena, right?” “Yeah,” I said. “Not exactly flattering. I was worried for a bit this guy had it out for me, but…guess he just liked my work.” “That make you feel better or worse?” “Not sure,” I said. “Warm and fuzzy this guy is not.” I clapped Curt on the shoulder. “Listen, Curt, I really appreciate it.” “Just do me a favor, wait until Carruthers makes his statement before you use that quote. Do all the research you want, just don’t jump the gun,” Curt warned. “You scratch my back, I scratch yours. So now it’s back to protecting and serving and all that good stuff,” I said. “You mean posing with tourists and keeping the kids away from my Glock. And you go back to being all fair and balanced and stuff,” Curt replied. “All the news that’s fit to print,” I said. Suddenly I heard a crackling sound. Curtis looked at me.

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Both of our heads shot to his waistband where his walkietalkie was attached. A voice came over the speaker. I only made out two words, and my blood froze. “Shots fired…” Curtis grabbed the walkie-talkie off his belt. The voice crackled again. “10-10, shots fired, repeat, 10-10, shots fired at the Franklin-Rees building. All officers respond.” I looked at Curtis, saw a mixture of fear and determination in his eyes. “That’s—” “Four blocks from here.” Curtis turned and sprinted down the street, pedestrians parting, holding their children and backing against the wall. I had no choice. I sprinted after him.

16 I

followed Curt Sheffield like a running back wisely trailing a bruising fullback. Oxygen burned in my lungs, and I felt my side tickle right below the scar where one year ago my perforated lung had to be inflated. Fear gripped me, my heart hammering. Shots fired. Why the hell was I running toward the shots? I heard sirens in the distance. Screams loud enough to be heard over them. Men and women were running past me. We were swimming against a terrified tide. And I saw one man run by, blood staining his shirt. The Franklin-Rees company published many of the country’s most popular magazines. A multibillion-dollar corporation, its headquarters was a brilliant steel monstrosity with enough security measures inside to stop a tank. But as I got closer, I could tell that all the security inside the building was useless to prevent the horror of what happened just outside. I saw a dozen officers, guns drawn, massing around the entrance to the Franklin-Rees building. Curt Sheffield was barking into a walkie-talkie. I heard sirens. Cop cars. An ambulance seemed to be drawing near. I stepped closer. And wondered why the ambulance was in such a rush. A man lay on the sidewalk. A pool of blood was spread-

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ing around his head. Or at least what was left of it. When I saw the piece of brain sliding down the polished glass door, my stomach lurched and I felt dizzy. Aside from the crowd of New York’s finest, a small crowd of onlookers watched from across the street. Several officers were shooing away ghouls with cameras. I could see a tuft of gray hair amidst the mass of blood and gore. Then the wind caught it, and took it away. The dead man was wearing a tailored suit. From the liver spots on his hands, I guessed him to be in his late fifties or early sixties. A white handkerchief, once tucked neatly into the jacket pocket, now fluttered like a trapped dove. When he put the walkie-talkie down, I approached Curt. “What the hell happened?” “Not now, Henry.” “Please, just one minute…” “I said not now,” Curt said, pushing me away. Not now didn’t compute. I had to know. And if Curt wasn’t talking, none of the cops would. And enough people were milling about that somebody had to know something. Pushing the nausea aside, I walked across the street, right into the mass of onlookers. I took out my press pass and held it above my head. “Did anybody see anything?” I shouted. “Please, we need witnesses.” Nobody said a word. They were either too frightened or too busy relaying the news to their entire address book. I scanned the crowd. Looked each person in the face, tried to understand their emotional state, if there was anything more to them being there. One woman stood out. She had stringy brown hair, a cheap pantsuit and a brooch that looked way out of her price range.

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There was a speck of red on her white blouse that I knew had to be blood. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open. She stared at me for a moment, then looked away. Slowly I walked up to her. I extended my press pass, along with my hand. She stared at me, unsure of what to do. Her eyes were terrified, but something was shackling her to the scene. She had to be here. She was much closer to all this than she wanted to be. “You were next to him, weren’t you?” I asked softly. She nodded. “I’m Henry,” I said, taking her hand in mine. Her whole body was shaking. I put my hand on her shoulder, tried to comfort her. I felt silly. I’d seen people die in front of me. And no hand in the world could comfort that. “Betty Grable,” she said. “I’m—was—oh God—I’m Mr. Lourdes’s assistant.” My jaw dropped. “That,” I spat out. “That’s Jeffrey Lourdes?” She nodded again, then burst into tears. Jeffrey Lourdes was the publisher of Moss magazine, and one of the most influential figures in popular culture for nearly thirty years. He’d been credited for discovering dozens of headlining acts, some of the greatest reporting the country had ever seen, and now he was a mass of flesh torn apart by a piece of lead. “I didn’t know what was happening,” Betty said. “I swear.” Her hands were a trembling mess, tears cascading down her cheeks. “I was just telling him he had to be in early tomorrow for a photo shoot, then out of nowhere—” She covered her mouth with her hand, choked sobs into it. I stayed silent. Had to let it come to her. “Then he shot him!” she cried. “He shot him!” “Who?” I asked. “The young man,” she said, her lip quivering. “He did it.”

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“Who was he? Young man? How old was he? What did he look like?” “I don’t know,” Betty said. She looked at me as if having a revelation. “He looked about your age.” I stopped writing, looked at her. “What happened?” “We were standing there, Jeffrey was about to hail a taxi, and all of a sudden this man came out of nowhere. He was holding this giant—gun isn’t even the right word—this giant thing. This fucking cannon. He just walked right up to Jeffrey and pulled the trigger, and then he ran. Oh God, Jeffrey!” She was staring at the body. One foot was visible through the sea of blue and white. I saw a police car pull up in front. An ambulance behind it. Two EMS workers popped out, ran to the body. I could tell from their body language they weren’t going to work too hard on this one. “What did he look like?” I said. Betty shook her head. Not because she didn’t know, but because she didn’t want to. “He was tall,” she said. “Maybe an inch taller than you. Jeans. A jacket.” She trailed off. “What else?” “I don’t know!” she cried. “Trust me, I know this is hard,” I said. “But did he have any distinguishing features. Facial hair, tattoos, piercings…” “The gun,” she said. “The gun?” “The way he held it after he killed Jeffrey. I’ll never forget that look in his eye. He stared at his gun for a second and then he ran. Looked at it the way somebody looks at a lover. This sick, sick boy. Oh my God…” “The gun,” I said. “What did it look like?”

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She looked at me as if in shock that I could be asking such a trivial question. “Please. It’s important. Think.” “It…it looked like something out of a movie. Not a recent movie, something old. And the way he held it, like it was fragile.” “What about what the gun looked like?” “The handle was brown…” “Could it have been made from wood?” I asked. She nodded. “There was this terrible explosion…” She stopped. “Please, I can’t do this right now.” “Can you tell me anything else about it? Was it one barrel or two?” “I don’t know! I’ve never seen a real gun before in my life, now please leave me alone.” Just then a cop seemed to take notice and jogged over to us. He separated me, whispered, “Get the fuck out of here, scum.” Then he said, “Miss, did you see the shooter?” As I walked away, I looked over my shoulder long enough to see her nod and then collapse in his arms. Ten feet from the carnage, a man clicked open his cell phone. Sweat was streaming down his face. He’d thankfully skipped lunch. Breathing heavy, he pressed Redial and waited for an answer. “Hello?” “Miss Cole?” He mopped at his brow with a shirtsleeve. “It’s James Keach. You’ll never believe what just happened.”

17 I arrived home tired to the bone. After spending hours writing my piece on the Jeffrey Lourdes murder, my fingers ached, and my head throbbed. I’d had enough death for a lifetime, and I was growing tired of seeing it up close. I tossed my wallet and keys on the table, fell into the couch next to Amanda. She put her hand on mine. I squeezed it with whatever energy I had left. We sat there. Tried to talk. Conversation came in bits and pieces. Amanda had ordered dinner for both of us. I wasn’t hungry, just watched her poke at a salad. I stirred my pasta with a disinterested fork. All I could think about was Jeffrey Lourdes, and how ironic it was that the first time I ever saw him in person, his most recognizable feature had been reduced to blood and bone. Betty Grable’s words still rang in my ears. Between what Curt Sheffield told me about the ammunition used to kill both Athena Paradis and Joe Mauser, and her description of the weapon used to kill Jeffrey Lourdes, there was no doubt in my mind that the killer was using a rifle that took magnum bullets, and he was using that weapon for a reason. And somehow I had to find that reason, and use that to find the killer.

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“How’s work?” I asked Amanda. It was just a conversation starter, something to break the mood. Death was an inevitable part of reporting, but it had no place at the dinner table. “The judge is still being a dick on the Mary Westin case,” she said. “Three abuse complaints from the neighbors, two cigarette burns and Judge Jellyfish still doesn’t realize it’s in Mary’s best interest to be taken the hell away from her sickass parents.” I nodded, picked at a piece of penne. On many nights I’d told Amanda how proud I was of her—both her work ethic and choice of profession. After graduation, Amanda had passed her bar exam and achieved high enough marks to warrant a position in the Juvenile Rights Division of the New York Legal Aid Society. The caseload for lawyers working for the Legal Aid Society had increased nearly a hundred percent in the last few years, mainly due to some high-profile cases of child abuse and neglect that resulted in the horrific death of children who had slipped through the cracks. The Legal Aid Society had taken a beating in the press for their alleged inability to protect children whose parents were already the recipients of numerous abuse complaints. Because of this they were looking for fresh blood, cowboys and cowgirls who wouldn’t stand for red tape. Amanda worked long hours, alongside several other lawyers who were appointed “law guardians” by the court. It was incredibly enriching work for her, I knew. But spending all day every day around troubled and abused children took its toll. Sometimes she would come home, crawl into bed and appear on the verge of tears. She was too strong for that, though. She knew her tears were trivial compared to the reality of the situation. And her energy was better focused outward than in.

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“You know, I sit there sometimes,” she continued, “and I want to scream. Not that I really hate the guys I work for, but in these cases you need to throw the book against the wall and just holler. Right and wrong doesn’t stem from legal precedent.” I felt her staring at me, waiting for a response. I didn’t want to talk about my day, but had to bite my tongue not to erupt. I hated making Amanda feel like my troubles were any more important than hers, but I couldn’t focus on anything but this story. “I have a lot of work for tomorrow,” I said. “I’m pretty sure whoever’s responsible for these murders is using an antique rifle or a replica, something that hasn’t been used in a long time. There are thirty-two gun shops in the five boroughs alone, so I have my work cut out for me.” “You should talk to Agnes Trimble,” Amanda said, sighing, wiping her mouth as a tomato spurted juice onto her plate. “She was my American History professor at NYU. Brilliant woman, but she scared the hell out of us during student conferences. She kept half a dozen model guns in her office, you know, like some people keep snow globes or toy fire trucks. She knows more about guns than Al Gore knows about the environment. Belongs to the NRA, all that good stuff. I can call her if you’d like, she should be in the city for the next few weeks and I’m sure she’d be happy to talk to you. Who knows, maybe she can help.” “Actually, yeah. That’d be a huge help,” I said. “Thanks.” “No problem.” We sat there in silence as I listened to Amanda chew. “Did you see him die?” she asked me. There was a corner of lettuce sticking out of her mouth. “No,” I said. “I just saw what happened afterward.” Amanda chewed more.

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“You don’t want to know,” I said. “No,” she replied. “Guess I don’t.” As I got up and tossed the rest of my dinner into the garbage, the buzzer rang. “Are you expecting anyone?” she asked. For a moment, my heart hammered. I could picture Mya waiting downstairs. “No,” I said. Amanda looked at me for a moment, surely knew what I was thinking. We walked to the window. Though we had no doorman to announce visitors, our apartment overlooked the building’s entrance vestibule. Handier than an eye slot. I grunted and heaved the window open, reminding myself to wipe down the grease and grime later, and poked my head outside. Looking down, I saw a man wearing a gray trenchcoat and hat. He looked up. “Let me the hell up, will you?” “Who is it?” Amanda asked. “It’s Jack,” I said with more than an ounce of relief. I closed the window and pressed the door release button. “Doesn’t he have his own home? What’s he doing here at this hour?” “I have no idea.” I’d worked with Jack for over a year, and never once had we seen each other’s apartments. I pictured his clean, full of polished wood and cracked books. Shelves lined with erudite literature and snifters of amber liquid, a fire roaring as he puffed a pipe and wrote great news of the day. I looked around my apartment. Wondered if his vision of mine contained empty bottles of Pepsi and a subscription to Glamour. “Quick,” I said. “Hide stuff.”

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I picked up all the girly magazines, food wrappers and rubber bands I could find and threw them in the trash. Which was already overflowing with girly magazines, food wrappers and rubber bands. “What are you doing?” “Amanda, baby,” I said, taking her hands in mine. “I idolized this man growing up. He’s probably the only man I’ve ever dreamt about. And now he’s coming up to my apartment.” She eyed me like I’d just insulted her mother. “Okay, forget I said that. Just help.” For the next minute, we scrambled around the room tidying up as best we could. In those sixty seconds, our onebedroom apartment went from resembling a tsunami-affected college dorm room to resembling an apartment lived in by two people who cleaned dishes after using them. I heard a knock at the door. I looked around, panicked, then threw myself onto the worn polyurethane sofa and crossed my legs. Amanda glared at me. “You expect me to open the door?” “Would you mind?” She gave an exasperated sigh. “Just so you know, you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.” She went to the door. Peered through the eyehole for dramatic effect. “Who is it?” “Now it’d be some coincidence if it was someone other than the guy who was just downstairs,” Jack said, his voice muffled by the door. Amanda unlocked the door and opened it. Jack was breathing heavy, the trenchcoat seeming to weigh him down. He took off his hat, a few loose gray hairs sticking to it. “You must be Miss Davies,” he said. “That’s right.” “Charmed.” He took her hand, kissed it as he looked into

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her eyes. She smiled demurely. “Henry here talks about you nonstop.” “Is that so? Well, at least one man here can call himself a gentleman.” She led him into the apartment. “Can I get you a drink, Mr. O’Donnell?” “Please call me Jack. And I’ll take a Jack as well, if you have one, on ice.” Amanda and I looked at each other. “It’s been a long day.” Amanda disappeared into the kitchen. She came back with a glass full of brown liquid over ice. “Seagram’s Seven. All we had.” “Do nicely,” Jack replied. He moved over to the couch, let out a groan as he sat down. “How you holding up?” “Me?” I said incredulously. “Heard you were at the Franklin-Rees building when…it happened.” “Nearby,” I corrected. “I’m holding up fine. Jeffrey Lourdes is the one who was shot.” “Murder has a ripple effect, gets a lot of people wet,” Jack said. “You better than anyone should know that.” Jack took a sip of his Seagram’s. His cheeks were red, eyes tinged with veins. I wondered whether he was simply fatigued from taking the stairs, or if that Seagram’s wasn’t his first cocktail of the evening. “I’m fine,” I said. “Really.” “You know they haven’t found a quote at the scene of Lourdes’s murder,” Jack said. “The first two were left in such prominent locations, either he dropped the whole thing, or…” “Or he just didn’t have time.” “You have to wonder, really, what kind of person walks up to a man in broad daylight and shoots him in the head.” “Same kind of person who shoots an unarmed woman and

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a cop from a distance,” I said. “They’re not dealing with your average run-of-the-mill lunatic. This guy has an agenda.” “You think so?” Jack said. “Well, look at his targets. Athena Paradis, Mayor Perez and Jeffrey Lourdes. Remember, Joe Mauser was a mistake. All three of those people are celebrities, in some form or another. He’s not killing random people, he’s killing people whose deaths would pretty much dominate news coverage. I mean, just look at the Metro papers the last few days. Athena, Mauser and tomorrow Jeffrey Lourdes will be everywhere.” “What do you make of the gun?” Jack asked, another nip of brown disappearing down his throat. “I really don’t know,” I said. “Seems like he’s using some sort of antique, something with a meaning. Don’t quite know what yet, but Amanda has a contact from school who might be able to shed some light. I spoke to Lourdes’s assistant at the scene. She got a quick glimpse of the killer and a partial of the murder weapon. Unfortunately she couldn’t ID the actual shooter, and her police sketch is more vague than a Rorschach. Because of the chaos at the Franklin-Rees building, the guy was able to escape in the stampede.” “Mayor Perez, Athena Paradis and Jeffrey Lourdes,” Jack said. “Not exactly three people you could imagine having brunch together on a Sunday morning.” “But someone sees them fitting in the same pattern.” “In this city,” Jack said, “there’s no shortage of people like those three. People who hog the front page. And though our great police force is locked up tighter than my grandma’s cooter when it comes to terrorism, there’s no defense for a sick fuck who wants to kill one person at a time.” “Lourdes,” I said, “was surrounded by a hundred people when he died. His shooting caused a stampede. It couldn’t

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have been any easier for the killer to disappear than if Scotty had beamed him aboard the Enterprise.” “Nobody disappears,” Jack said, swallowing the last of the whiskey. “It’s our job to find out what rug they’re hiding under.” “I’m on it,” I said. “You know the last quote he used. When he killed Joe Mauser.” I’d told Jack about my tip. “I’ll let them know what bad means,” Jack said. “I looked it up,” I said. “Guess quoting a junior reporter just wasn’t scary enough, he had to upgrade to sicker game.” “Billy the Kid,” Jack said. “Carruthers scowled during his statement, like he couldn’t believe this thing could get any more macabre.” “He’s moved on from quoting me to quoting mass murderers,” I said. “Forgetting for a moment my disgust at being in that company, if the killer does see himself as some sort of avenger it probably means there’s a longer list of people this guy doesn’t like.” “Billy the Kid,” Jack said. “You know the Kid, or whatever the hell his real name was, pretty much started the trend of yellow journalism. His estate should get royalties from the National Enquirer and Weekly World News. Reporters and hack novelists all over the country tripped over themselves to drool over this guy. Made him out to be some kind of hero. Some kind of Robin Hood. Idolizing celebrities practically began with the Kid.” “You think that’s how this killer sees himself? Offing the rich and famous to help the poor?” “Remember he also quoted your ass,” Jack said. “Let’s just hope all he’s got is an affinity for scary words. In the meantime, we need to stay ahead on this story.” “Stay ahead? What do you mean?”

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He took another sip and looked at me. And for the first time since I’d known him, Jack O’Donnell looked worried. “Paulina,” he said. “What about her?” “She’s selling newspapers.” “Well, that’s her job,” I said. “From what I hear she just didn’t fit at the Gazette.” “Maybe not,” Jack continued, “but if the Dispatch beats us to this story, they could see a double digit circulation growth by the end of the year.” I stayed silent. “What that means, in lay terms, is we’d be fucked.” I considered this. “I know the Dispatch’s circulation is up since she joined the paper, but I mean…” “There’s been a three percent swing this week alone, Henry. Whether it’s our reporters getting beat to the punch or her articles attracting our readers, it’s happening. These three murders are the biggest story of the year, everyone with a pen and a brain trying to get a piece. There’s going to be a clear winner and loser here. We need to make sure we’re not the ones holding the silver.” “They weren’t beating us to the punch when I reported Athena’s murder the morning she died,” I said, my voice coming out angrier than I’d hoped. “That was days ago, Henry,” Jack said. He sighed, sank into the couch. “Since then it’s neck and neck. Nobody is getting new scoops. So it comes down to juice, plain and simple. Paulina has it, we don’t. People want salacious stories, headlines in bold, and photos of celebrities in bikinis. Only thing that can distract them from that is real, honest-to-God news. And until we get that, we’re going to get creamed every day. If two people are tied during the race, everyone stares at the one wearing flashier clothing.”

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“I prefer jeans,” I said. “Don’t be a smart-ass. And listen, Henry, you should be aware of it…Paulina knows you were at the crime scene today. Knew it before we did, actually.” “What—how is that possible?” “I think she has some chumscrubber tailing you. But she’s mentioning it in tomorrow’s article on the Lourdes murder, claiming you always find yourself at the scenes of brutal crimes. Between Fredrickson, Mauser, your quote being found at Athena’s crime scene and being seen talking to a witness today, she’s got enough paint on her brush to level some pretty brash accusations.” “That was a coincidence. I was talking to a friend. Any decent reporter would have done the same thing.” “A friend. You mean the cop.” “Yes, a cop friend, Curt Sheffield.” “I know Curt. Seen that recruiting poster everywhere but my refrigerator.” “Whatever,” I said. “Bottom line is I have a lead on a hell of a story.” “You know, I thought you might.” “That gun, the one the killer is using, there’s a reason he’s using it. I’m going to find out what that is. Paulina doesn’t have that. Combine that with this new quote, it’s going to fit somewhere.” I sat there silent. Watched Jack rattle his empty glass. Then he stood up, tipped his cap at Amanda, nodded at me. “Find the story,” Jack said. “Behind every murder is a motive. The cops don’t care about that right now, they just want the man. Motive will come later, once they can be sure there aren’t any more high-caliber bullets aimed at anyone’s skull. So keep on keeping on.” “I will.”

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“Important work is silent until it needs to be heard. Keep that in mind. Other people want this story, too.” Then he left. I turned to Amanda. “Your history professor,” I said. “You think she’s still awake?”

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he headline read, Head Of Franklin-Rees, Now Without A Head. Even I was shocked by the tactlessness and audacity of the Dispatch’s front page. The lead story, naturally, was the murder of Jeffrey Lourdes, accompanied by a gruesome photo of the man’s legs with blood pooling around them. In Technicolor. The paper neglected to mention how Jeffrey Lourdes had revolutionized the magazine industry in the early seventies with several titles that captured the zeitgeist with aplomb and erudition, how he’d mentored many of the country’s most talented writers and journalists from scruffy-haired hipsters to men and women who changed the face of American culture. Instead the Dispatch focused on rumors of money laundering, infidelity, drugs and under-the-table deals. It noted how, over the last decade, Lourdes had been accused of letting his legacy go to seed, eschewing strong journalism for salacious stories and shoddy reportage that his younger self would have thrown in the fire. It also noted how, despite Lourdes’s rumored twenty-million-a-year salary, circulation for Moss was way down, and the magazine had long ago ceded any cultural impact.

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They would have had you believe Lourdes was as dirty as they come, a common rat working in an ivory tower. Our article for the Gazette painted a more accurate, more even picture. Giving Lourdes credit where he deserved it. I expected the Dispatch to kick our asses at the newsstand. If I didn’t know any better, the Dispatch was suggesting that the magazine industry was better off with Jeffrey Lourdes dead. At the same time, I knew I was on to something, that there was an even bigger story surrounding the deaths of Athena Paradis, Joe Mauser and Jeffrey Lourdes. I needed to find out why someone had murdered a famous socialite and a publishing magnate, and tried to assassinate a government official mere days apart, and why the killer seemed to be using weaponry and ammunition completely impractical for someone who was smart enough to carry the murders to their grim conclusion. I’d spent all night poring over the details given by Lourdes’s assistant regarding the gun she saw, the man she saw wielding it, as well as the info Curt Sheffield gave me about the ammunition caliber. At eleven-thirty I’d left a message for Professor Agnes Trimble. I name-dropped Amanda, her former student, said I needed to talk to her about an important story. She called me back within fifteen minutes. “I don’t have much of a nightlife,” she’d said. If what Amanda said was true, and she collected firearms, I wasn’t totally surprised. But could a college professor help paint a clearer picture of a murder suspect? I squinted as we walked toward the subway. Agnes was expecting us at eight-thirty sharp. Not much of a nightlife, didn’t care much about sleeping in. No wonder Amanda liked her so much. “So you’re sure Trimble isn’t just someone who has a strange gun fetish,” I said. “You really think she can help?”

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“No, I just like spending my free time with old teachers,” Amanda offered. “Trust me, if this thing has a trigger, she can help. Not that you learned anything at whatever that school was.” Guess it was that simple. We took the 4 train down to West Fourth street and headed toward the NYU College of Arts and Sciences, located in downtown Manhattan by Washington Square South. “You know, I did go to a pretty good college,” I said. “According to who, U.S. News and World Reports? Please. They know as much about academia as I know about horticulture. Most Ivy Leaguers are the kind of students who work twenty hours a day to make a three-point-eight, then get hit by a bus on your first day of work because you don’t have enough common sense to know that red means ‘stop.’” “I’ve never been hit by a bus,” I replied. “Right. You just got shot.” She had me there. Amanda had taken a class with Trimble, Professor of the Humanities, Professor of nineteenth-century American Cultural History, during her junior year. She claimed Trimble was brilliant, slightly loony, but if you wanted to know anything that took place between Maine and California between eighteen hundred and nineteen hundred, you could be sure it was rattling around in her brain. Hopefully we could jar something loose, because aside from my employer losing ground to the print princess of darkness, three people had been killed and a murderer was still on the loose. I’ll let them know what bad means. It was early May, and Trimble had just finished up finals week. According to Amanda, she was spending her final days

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in the city packing up the office before heading off to Malibu for the summer. I wanted to ask more about this Malibu trip, but Amanda shushed me. “Better you don’t know,” she said. “Let’s just say her favorite movie is Point Break.” I hadn’t been back to NYU since several people had wanted me for murder. That coincided with how I met Amanda. Needless to say, the school held some memories for me. Traded pain for pleasure, took a bullet in the leg in exchange for a lover at night. Fair deal, but if the bullet had been a few inches higher I wouldn’t be thinking that. The NYU College of Arts and Sciences had a storied history, and what was now known as the Brown Building was formerly known as the Asch Building. The Asch Building was the site of the infamous Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. The blaze, which occurred on March 25th, 1911, began on the eighth floor and quickly spread. Due to cramped working conditions and a lack of exits (including one that had been locked ostensibly to prevent workers from stealing), the fire killed a hundred and forty-six workers before it was put out. It was purchased by real estate magnate Fredrick Brown, who donated it to the University where it became the Brown Building of Science. I didn’t want to ask Amanda about it, but I don’t know how I would have felt taking classes in a building where nearly a hundred and fifty people had died. “Ah, home sweet home.” Amanda sighed as we entered the CAS building. Despite the fact that summer was nearing and most sane students would have fled the campus weeks ago, there was a line twenty people deep waiting for an elevator that looked like it’d been erected by people who still wore shirtwaists. Amanda, though, seemed completely unsurprised. “It’s always like this,” she said. “The elevator goes about

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a floor an hour. It’s an excuse for students to be late to class. Professors can always tell who the serious students are because they’re the ones who are panting and sweating when the bell rings. Come on, let’s take the stairs.” Agnes Trimble’s office was on the third floor. I was hardly panting when we arrived. I felt a small amount of pride at that. Then I felt ashamed for being proud of walking up two flights of stairs. I followed Amanda down a whitewashed hall. Most of the doors were closed, the faculty having all adjourned for the summer, the corkboards adjacent to them holding naked staples and thumbtacks and occasional notices whose posters had neglected to take them down. As we turned down one corridor, I heard loud noise coming from the end of the hall. As we got closer, I could hear the strains of the Grateful Dead’s “Casey Jones” playing at full blast. “That’d be her,” Amanda said without an ounce of irony. “She’s a huge deadhead.” We followed the music and came to an open doorway whose nameplate read Professor Agnes Trimble. And immediately my expectations were blown to hell. Agnes Trimble was a small woman, sitting down I guessed about five foot three and a hundred ten pounds. She looked to be in her late fifties, with hair dyed so red I was surprised a horde of bulls weren’t stampeding around the office. Her hair was done up in what I could best describe as a bird’s nest, pretty much clumped together and held there with a brown scrunchy and a few terrorized bobby pins. On her ears rested a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, which I suppose helped her enjoy the two lava lamps in either corner. On her computer, a felt monkey dangled from a small American flag, its Velcro hands fastened to the top of the Stars and Stripes. Taped to

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one shelf looked to be an actual ticket stub from the original Woodstock, complete with authentic-looking mud stain. Her shelves were covered in books whose staid titles must have been hideously embarrassed by the rest of the décor. I debated relaying the information that the Partridge Family bus had left the parking lot a long time ago. And resting among these hipster-drenched relics were dozens of toy guns. All makes and models. Rifles, cannons, small arms and enough tanks to blow the hell out of the Indian in the Cupboard. And somehow I was not surprised to see pictures of various male celebrities, many of them sans shirts or other commonly worn articles of clothing, taped to a corkboard behind her desk. I suppose reporting while staring at the nipples of Orlando Bloom and George Clooney had to happen sometime. “Amanda, baby!” Agnes leapt up, leaned over the desk and wrapped her arms around Amanda, who leaned in awkwardly to reach the small woman. Agnes squeezed her eyes shut, sucked in a breath, and for a moment I worried she might be trying to inhale Amanda’s soul. When they separated, Amanda gestured to me and said, “Professor Trimble, this is who I was telling you about, Henry Parker. He’s a reporter for the Gazette.” I held out my hand to shake hers. She eyed me, squinted slightly. “He your…boyfriend?” she asked, a sly smile on her lips. “Uh…” I said. “Actually, yes,” Amanda said. “I didn’t realize we were wearing name tags.” Agnes sat back down, reached into her desk and pulled out a candy cane. She unwrapped it and popped the whole thing in her mouth. Through a mouthful of peppermint, she said,

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“You didn’t need name tags. Eighty-thirty in the morning, both of you dressed and showered, Henry wearing matching socks and the whole nine. Henry here is a reporter…no guy I’ve ever met under the age of thirty is dressed well and showered this early unless they’re going to work, going to a funeral, or going somewhere with the person they sleep with. Do you have a funeral this afternoon?” My cheeks grew warm, and Amanda’s looked like they could catch fire at any moment. “Not that I know of,” I said. “Then you’re boyfriend and girlfriend,” Agnes said. “That’s lovely. Please, sit. Candy cane?” “No, thanks,” we echoed. Agnes shrugged as if she couldn’t believe how anyone could say no to such a scrumptious treat at this time of day. In the meantime, Agnes seemed to have noticed me staring at the photos behind her desk. I’d also noticed that she wore a wedding ring. “You never had pictures taped to your locker?” she asked. “I did,” I said, “back in high school.” I glanced at her wedding ring. “How does your husband feel about them?” “What are you, ten years old?” she asked. “He knows I’m not sleeping with Brad Pitt, and as long as that stays the case he could care less if I have pictures of him or Stephen Hawking on my wall. If you have a problem with them, you can leave any time.” There was a sharp pain in my side as Amanda elbowed me. “Nope, no problem.” “So, Amanda, how are you? It’s been, what, three years?” “Four,” Amanda corrected. “Junior year, U.S. Nineteenth Century Intellectual and Cultural History.” “What’d I give you in that class?” “A minus.”

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“That’ll do. I refuse to put up with students post-graduation unless they’ve received at least a B plus. So what brings you to our humble university? Not soliciting donations, I hope.” I laughed. Amanda didn’t. Clearly I’d missed a joke. “So, Mr. Parker,” Agnes said. “Amanda tells me you’re a reporter and you have some questions a woman of my expertise might be able to assist you with. That correct?” “Yes, ma’am,” I said. Agnes cringed. “Don’t call me ma’am, please. I’d rather die alone surrounded by cats than think I’m a ma’am. Call me Agnes.” “Right, Agnes. Anyway, you’ve heard about these murders, right? Athena Paradis, Officer Joe Mauser, Jeffrey Lourdes?” She shook her head sadly. “Terrible, terrible things. How someone can murder people who’ve contributed so much to our society is just shameful and beyond me.” “The person who committed these crimes, I’m pretty sure they’re using a weapon, specifically a rifle, that has some specific cause or reason behind its use. The killer is also using ammunition I’ve been told is quite out of the ordinary,” I eyed her red hair, the lava lamps. “Amanda said you were familiar with nineteenth-century weaponry…” “Shoot,” she said. Then she laughed. “Get it, shoot? Go on.” “Right. So my source in the NYPD told me that the bullet used to kill both Athena Paradis and Officer Mauser was a .44-40 caliber magnum round.” Agnes bit her lip, furrowed her brow. “That’s a powerful bullet,” she said. “So I’ve heard. Is it true that it’s an uncommon round?” “Depends,” she said. “Hunters use them all the time— .44-40 bullets have massive stopping power, and just enough accuracy that if you’re a decent shot, you’ll only need one shot.”

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“I’ve scanned the police reports for every homicide in the five boroughs over the last five years,” I said. “Three hundred and twelve murders. None of them with magnum rounds.” “Well, to be honest magnum rounds aren’t the kind of ammunition you tend to see these days, at least not around here,” she said. “What do you mean?” “Well, the area between the Hudson and East River isn’t exactly known for their hunting grounds.” She paused. “Unless this man is making them.” “I think he may be,” I said. “Listen, Mr. Parker…” “Call me Henry.” “Right, Parker, I appreciate you coming down here, it flatters me to no end that a former student thinks so highly of me to believe I might be of some assistance on a murder case. But I’m a college professor. Nothing more, maybe a little less.” I looked around her office. “Mrs. Trimble, it’s clear you have a passion for these weapons. Now regardless of what that says about you, I’d sure as hell trust someone who has a passion for something over someone who gets paid to do it. I think Amanda’s right. But I’m not a cop, I’m not asking you to help catch a murderer. But I think there’s more to this than simple killings. I think this guy has a motive, and I think his gun is a clue to that.” Agnes took the candy cane from her mouth, tossed it in the garbage. Looked me over. “You know my father took me to the range when I was a little girl. Had one set up in our backyard. Picket fence with empty paint cans on it. Only seven-year-old in my town who could shoot paint cans from twenty yards out with a 9 mm with eighty-seven-percent accuracy. I know guns. I don’t like what they can do, but I’m in awe of them.”

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“I can see that,” I said. “And that could be the difference here.” “Do they know what kind of gun it was fired from?” “Not specifically,” I said. “But there are clues. A witness to Jeffrey Lourdes’s murder said she got a good look at the weapon. She said it looked old, like she’d seen it in a movie. It might have had a wood stock. That’s as much as I know.” “Mr. Parker, hundreds of guns fit that description. If that’s all you have…” “Does the phrase ‘gun that won the West’ mean anything to you?” Agnes’s eyes opened wide. She brought a hand to her mouth, chewed on a fingernail. Suddenly she stood up, started running her finger along the spines of various books on her shelf. She stopped at one. Took it out and laid it on her desk. She flipped it open. It was text heavy, filled with old photographs and illustrations. She turned to the index, flipped some more, scanned down, then stopped when she found what she was looking for. “You say you think this rifle bears a significance to the case?” she asked. All the playfulness had left Agnes Trimble’s voice. She was working now, the switch I assumed made her so good at her job was now turned on. “I don’t know about the case, but it does to the man committing these crimes. I just need to prove it. I need to know why this gun is so special to him.” She turned the book around so it faced me. “Could this be the gun?” On the page was a photograph of a rifle. It had a wooden stock, like Lourdes’s assistant said. Other than that, I didn’t know. “Look here,” Agnes said. “Rather than a traditional trigger

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guard, it has a reloading mechanism with only one side attached to the frame. Makes for easy and fast reloading. These kind of rifles are as common as sequin jumpsuits. You asked about the gun that won the West? Well, here it is.” The caption beneath the rifle read, Winchester 1873, First Model Rifle, S/N 27. It was a beautiful piece of firepower. I examined it. “At the time, this gun was given the highest production run of any rifle in history,” she said. “As much as the Winchester won the West, it nearly drowned it in blood as well.” “Does the Winchester 1873 take .44-40 magnum rounds?” Agnes nodded, her fingernail underlining a passage in the text. The Winchester 1873 lever action rifle was originally chambered for the .44-40—a bottlenecked cartridge that has acquired legendary status and is often referred to as ‘The cartridge that won the West.’ I read the line, wondered if this was the gun the killer was using. The rifle obviously had history, a literal one at that. But why would somebody in the twenty-first century use a nearly hundred-and-forty-year-old gun? “So the gun was accurate,” I said to Agnes. “And fast. But it surely can’t match some of the weapons around today. Hell…Uzis, semiautomatics, Saturday night specials.” “Yeah, I’ve seen movies, too. And yes, there are many guns currently on the market that obliterate the necessity of the Winchester. But if this is the gun, and I’m assuming at this point that’s a big if, this man is not using it for efficiency or posterity.” “So why use it?” Amanda said. She was into this, a little too much. “The Winchester 1873,” Agnes said, her voice taking on a

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reverential tone, “until the Uzi 9 mm came along, was the most famous and most recognizable gun in the world. Over half a million were produced and in circulation before the turn of the century. Between lawmen, outlaws and other savory and unsavory types, just about anyone who needed to kill someone was doing it with a Winchester model 1873.” “What made it so popular?” Agnes breathed out, whistled. “Oh, well, take your pick. The construction was far more rugged than the previous models. That beast could take a pounding. It had a leveraction mechanism, and what that does is allow the shooter to fire several cartridges without having to reload. The 1873 model was lighter and faster than its grandfather, the 1866. The 1873 had a steel frame, which allowed Winchester to use a centerfire instead of a rimfire for the first time.” Amanda said, “You know if I knew you knew all this, I might not have registered for your class.” “If I didn’t know all this, I wouldn’t have a dozen unregistered students every semester taking my class for no credit.” “So what’s the difference between centerfire and rimfire?” Agnes seemed to get that I knew a little less about weaponry than your average twenty-five-year-old. She spoke with no condescension, and I could tell her interest was more than academic. “The centerfire was one of the most important technological advancements in the history of advanced weaponry. See, with a centerfire, a gunman could use more than one cartridge at a time.” “Or gunwoman,” Amanda added. “Hey, I know about Annie Oakley.” Agnes continued. “The older model Winchesters used a rimfire, which fired at a lower velocity and smaller caliber since the firing mechanism would often be damaged when

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using higher power ammunition. The steel frame made it the first rifle which could be used in just about any weather condition. It truly was an all-purpose killing machine.” I said, “Athena Paradis and Joe Mauser were killed by .44-40 magnum rounds. I’m willing to bet Jeffrey Lourdes was the same. My friend on the force told me the .44-40 rounds are pretty uncommon calibers to be used in an urban setting.” “They are, mainly because they’re impractical as hell,” Agnes said. “But in the 1880s, you didn’t have Uzis. A good rifle, accurate, powerful and easily reloaded, could win a war, wreak havoc everywhere, or keep the law.” “So basically this was a bad-ass rifle of the first degree.” “I believe that’s how pretty much any historian would put it.” I sat back and tried to digest all of this. According to all the facts we had so far, a young man could be running around New York with a rifle made famous in the nineteenth century. A rifle that would be described as a “killing machine.” So far he had targeted three people who had seemingly no connection to each other aside from their propensity for front-page coverage. Popular gun, popular targets. I knew there was more to this story. That there was a very specific reason, if this was the right gun, that this monster was using it. Agnes continued, confirming my thoughts. “Nobody would be using this weapon today without a purpose.” “I know that,” I said. “But we don’t know what that purpose is. Where could someone find this gun?” I asked. “Oh, hell, I don’t know. Someone who wants it bad, that’s for sure.” “Look, Agnes,” I said. “Three people are dead. Who knows how many more are targeted, or if the cops can catch this guy

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before he crosses anyone else off his list? Right now all I want to do is find out if this is the gun being used, and if so, why. I know in my heart if I can answer that question, we’ll find out who this man is.” Agnes looked at me, looked at Amanda. “You love her?” she asked. Amanda’s mouth opened. The question knocked me a bit, but I looked her in the eye and said, “Yes I do.” I felt Amanda’s hand on mine. “Then promise this girl right here that if you feel yourself getting too close, you’ll back off. The kind of man who would go out of his way to use a weapon with such a bloody history won’t think twice about collateral damage. Reporters are no good dead.” “I know that,” I said. “Museums,” she said. “Museums with Old West exhibitions. Collectors, but antique and current. Start your search with everything below the Mason-Dixon line. Anyone who goes out of their way to possess a working Winchester 1873 knows its history well. And appreciates it.” “This killer surely does both,” I said. “Hey, would you mind if I make a copy of this?” “Not at all, Xerox machine is down the hall, second left, next to the Wet Paint sign.” I gently took the book, brought it to the machine, laid it flat and made three copies of the page featuring the Winchester. I put the copies in my backpack, then brought the book back to Agnes. “Thanks,” I said. “Don’t mention it. Now, what you do know,” she said, “is that someone is looking to make a statement. The Winchester 1873 wasn’t just any gun. This was the gun that won the

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West, back when our country was going through its bloodiest and most dangerous time.” “And now somebody’s brought that gun back east,” Agnes continued. “And you better pray to God they’re not looking for this gun to do what it does best, and pick up where it left off. Because these dead people? They’ll just be the beginning.”

19 S

he shivered in the morning air. She wore a tan polo shirt and skirt, the wind whipping through her uncombed hair. The weather report said today would be chilly and she could have easily worn a coat, but found herself caring less whether she was comfortable and more about getting out of the house. Last night had been a disaster. She remembered dancing on tables. She remembered pouring alcohol down her throat seemingly by the gallon. She remembered going home alone, and her bloodshot eyes reminded her that she’d cried herself to sleep. She remembered making a phone call around three in the morning, but it went right to his voice mail. She woke up with mascara stains on her pillow, throwing it into the laundry in a fit of rage. It was then that she remembered her meeting this morning. There were three messages on her cell phone. She didn’t even remember it ringing. One was from her friend Shayla calling to make sure she got home all right. The second was from her friend Bobby, one of the bazillion gorgeous gay men of New York City who spent more money on clothing than the U.N. spent on military aid and seemed to have swept all the decent straight guys under some giant heterosexual carpet.

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Bobby had been positively shattered by Athena Paradis’s murder. He owned an autographed copy of her book, had preordered her CD, and her image wallpapered his Mac. Bobby was also checking up on her. She’d gone to the bar with Bobby and her “friend” Victoria, though neither he nor Victoria seemed concerned enough to actually leave the bar to check on her. At least that’s the sense she got, considering there was house music blaring in the background on their message. The third was from her mother asking to meet up for dinner. Her mother sounded sad, even a little scared. She deleted the message and erased the call from her memory. She wore dark sunglasses. Not that anybody would recognize her. Recently her jaw had been hurting. She’d seen a doctor a few weeks ago who said she might need another operation, that the first one might have damaged a nerve. She drank so much vodka to numb the pain that more than once she feared having to get her stomach pumped. She was in no shape for this meeting, but when she remembered the woman’s voice, the urgency, the it’s about your father, I just want your side of the story, she knew she had to keep it. The diner was just a few blocks from her apartment. She went there almost every morning, and it had been her suggestion to meet there. On weekdays she ordered a cappuccino to go, and the owner was always kind. On weekends she would treat herself to chocolate chip pancakes, then go straight to the gym to work off the calories. They wouldn’t miss her at the office today. She’d called in sick. They didn’t much care whether she came in or not, as long as her last name was still Loverne. Mya walked up to the diner and opened the door. She

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welcomed the smell of frying bacon, sugary syrup and fresh eggs, felt like ordering all of them to get rid of the awful taste in her mouth. A bottomless cup of coffee would go a long way. She had a vague idea of who she was looking for. Then she saw a woman in the corner waving her hand. The woman mouthed Mya? Mya nodded, walked over and slid into the booth. The woman extended a hand with perfectly manicured nails, and said, “Mya Loverne?” Mya nodded. “Paulina Cole. It’s such a pleasure to meet you. Henry used to talk about you all the time back at the Gazette.” Paulina looked her over. It made Mya uncomfortable. Paulina Cole wore a tailored pantsuit. Her jewelry was fine but not ostentatious. She wore her hair tied back in a ponytail, a thin string of pearls around her neck. A tape recorder sat on the table next to two steaming cups of coffee. There was a smile on Paulina’s face, like a friendly aunt pleased to see how well her niece is doing. “You’re much more elegant in person. I’ve only seen your picture in the society pages.” “The lighting always sucks,” Mya said. “And the dresses make me feel like I can’t breathe.” “Coming from a well-known family is as much a curse as it is a gift,” Paulina said. “You know, it’s a real shame that Henry is too stubborn to see what he’s lost.” Mya didn’t know whether to smile or throw a cup of coffee in Paulina’s face. “Please don’t patronize me.” Paulina sat back, held up her hands. “I understand. But I can’t apologize for saying it. Listen,” she said, leaning forward again. “I’m embarrassed to say that we both know

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how stories in the news take on a life of their own. From what I gather, the last year has been hard for you.” “What do you know about it?” “Well, after you were involved in Henry’s altercation,” Paulina said, as though they’d been in a fender-bender, “your career doesn’t seem to have taken off the way you expected.” “What do you care about my career?” “I shouldn’t,” Paulina said. “But the truth is we both know how hard it is for strong women to make it in corporate America. Add to that the pressure of being a Loverne. Whether it’s law or journalism, it’s still about who can claw the hardest and deepest. Cornell, then law school at Columbia, you have a pretty terrific pedigree. I imagine neither were easy to achieve.” “Easy is what you make of it. Some kids can study eight hours a night and still blow the bar. Some can soak it up while spending three years sucking down beers five nights a week.” “And which were you?” Paulina asked. Mya shifted in her seat. “I don’t really know. I think I used to be the former. Now…I don’t know.” “Mya,” Paulina said, her voice growing soft. “You know why I asked you here, right?” “Not exactly,” she said. “You said something about my father. What does he have to do with anything?” Paulina sighed. “I’m going to be straight with you. I’m writing an article on your father’s campaign. Well, more specifically…his life. I think you can get where I’m going with this.” “No. Enlighten me.” “You’re not blind,” Paulina said, “and clearly not stupid.You must have heard the rumors. Or seen it with your own eyes.” “Seen what?” Mya said.

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“The other women.” Mya nearly choked. “You’re writing an article about my father seeing other women? Are you fucking kidding me?” Paulina offered her hands. “It’s more than that,” she said. “Your father is an important man. Important people need to gain the trust of their constituents. It’s my job, it’s what I’m paid for, to make sure people know the full story.” “Jesus,” Mya whispered. “It’s going to be in the newspapers,” Paulina said. “I have nothing against you or your father. I just want to know the truth. It doesn’t need to be painful. If you just tell me what you know, the innuendos are kept out of it. The truth is all I want.” “I can’t believe he’s so stupid,” Mya said, feeling her cheeks grow warm. “Your father?” Mya nodded. “So you knew.” “Yes,” Mya said, her voice barely a sound. “Do you know who?” Mya shook her head. “Or how many?” Again. “I don’t know anything else, please, just leave it alone.” “Mya,” Paulina said, “I honestly can’t imagine how hard this is for you. Have you been able to talk to anyone else about it?” Mya stared into her coffee. “What about Henry?” Mya looked at her, stared into Paulina’s eyes. Then shook her head. “We don’t talk anymore. At least he doesn’t talk to me.” Mya took a sip of her coffee, holding the mug in both hands. She let the warmth travel down her hands. She put it down, added some more sugar. “I’m not sure what else you want to know.” “Why doesn’t Henry want to talk to you? Weren’t you two close?”

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“Were,” Mya said. “What happened?” “It ended. Relationships do.” “You didn’t want to stay friends?” “I did,” Mya said. Paulina leaned closer. Mya could smell her perfume. It smelled good, not too strong. “The truth is, Mya, Henry is in an incredibly important position right now. I fear that the brain trust at the Gazette, that would be Harvey Hillerman and Wallace Langston, have placed too much pressure on Henry. Since the scandals last year, there haven’t been many young reporters given access to the kind of stories he’s had. Did you know he’s covering Athena Paradis’s murder?” “I read his stories,” Mya said. “So much pressure though,” Paulina said, as though the weight of the world was pressing on her shoulders. “If you’re not up to the job, in our profession there are catastrophic consequences.” Mya sipped her coffee, said nothing. Paulina offered a warm smile. “My ex was addicted to coffee,” she said. “If he didn’t drink a minimum of six cups a day, he’d throw furniture around our apartment like he was shooting rubber bands. I think I spent as much money staying in hotels to get away from him as I did paying our mortgage.” “Really?” “God, yes. If you’re ever in an abusive relationship, please take it from someone who’s made too many mistakes in the love department, get your ass out of that place quick and don’t ever look back.” They both laughed. Mya looked at Paulina. Her smile seemed so genuine, like she wasn’t simply a reporter, but

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someone who truly cared. Mya thought about her friends, the ones who said they’d always be there for her. The ones who never called, never checked up, always assumed her tears came from happiness. Never stopping to think that she had nothing to be happy about. And hadn’t for a long time. “We were together almost three years,” Mya said, sighing. “Then it ended.” “Just like that.” Paulina spread some raspberry jam over a slice of toast. She bit into it, brushed some crumbs off her lip. “Was it one thing, or just a lot of one things?” “Kind of both. You know how college relationships are. Eventually you either move in or get lost. I was a year older than Henry, and when I moved back to the city we just grew apart.” Paulina kept chewing. “And then…” Paulina stopped chewing. Waited. Mya stayed quiet. “And then what?” “You know, shit happens. Life. He was up there, I was down here. Shit.” Paulina spoke faster now, like she’d sensed something. “No, I have a feeling it was something specific. Did Henry do something? Did you?” Mya stayed silent. She didn’t know if she could go on. Thought about her father. Thought about Henry. The two men in her life who’d promised to care for her, had in the end abandoned her. She stared at the tape recorder, cold gray, wheels turning. A memory that wouldn’t be erased. Paulina reached across the table. She placed her hand on top of Mya’s. Kind. Mya felt her skin, smooth with just a hint of roughness around the fingertips. She looked at Paulina’s lips, coated with a demure red gloss. Mya felt tears come to her eyes again. She wanted to excuse herself, to go to the bathroom and wail and pound the walls and let it all out, let

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all the shit ooze into the walls and cracks and disappear. Then she could come back and sit here silent, without feeling like a dam about to burst. The tape recorder might as well have been a magnet holding her down. All she could do was talk. Afterwards her story wouldn’t get lost in the cracks, it would be recorded in those metal wheels. For some reason, she felt better knowing that. “It was about a year and a half ago,” Mya said. She felt the tears subside. Her jaw didn’t hurt, but she could feel the scar. Her eyes dried up. It felt good to get it out. “Henry and I were in a fight.” Paulina listened to the whole story. She nodded, smiled, nearly looked to be in tears at the end. And while they spoke, the tape recorder sitting on the table disappeared from Mya’s thoughts.

20 “So if you were a hundred-and-thirty-year-old gun whose reputation was more notorious than Andy Dick on a bender, where would you be?” “Do you really expect me to answer that?” Amanda said. “It’d be helpful if you could,” I replied. “But I won’t be too disappointed if you don’t.” Thankfully I had the deep resources of the Gazette archives at my disposal. Speed was key. With a thread this important, it was only a matter of time before other news outlets picked up on it. Once a story began percolating, you had to spill it before it grew cold. I had to find out if the killer was using a Winchester, and just what his motives were for killing three seemingly unconnected people. “I’m gonna head back to the office, see what I can dig up,” I said to Amanda. “Thanks for setting me up with Trimble, I knew there was a reason I keep you around.” I gave her a playful nudge, then wrapped my arm around her. As she leaned in, I heard a beep come from my pocket. I always kept my cell phone on silent mode when talking to a source. Someone had called and left a message. I checked my call log. One missed call. I recognized the

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number. I immediately shoved it back into my pocket. Amanda didn’t need to see the number. She only had to look at my expression to know. “It was her again, wasn’t it?” I nodded. “You know I’m not a jealous girlfriend,” Amanda said. “I don’t need the password to your e-mail, I have a life outside of you, I don’t sit around at night wondering when you’ll be home, and I sure as hell don’t care if you subscribe to Maxim. But raging jealousy and curiosity as to why your ex seems to think it’s all right to call you every freaking day are two different things entirely.” “She’s not calling me every day,” I said, and immediately regretted it. That wasn’t the point. Amanda was right. If the tables were turned and some old boyfriend was calling her at freaky hours, I’d be bugging the phone lines and setting up a tent outside the guy’s house waiting for him to come home. The fact that she’d let Mya’s intrusions go on for this long said a lot about her character and patience. And maybe mine, too. “Listen, Mya’s had it rough the past few years.You remember what I told you about us, that night? When she was attacked?” Amanda sighed, nodded. She knew about the attack. It was one of the first things I’d told her when we decided to be together. I thought it was important, to approach our relationship with all the cards on the table. It was a painful one to show. A year and a half ago, Mya had been attacked. She was living in New York, while I was finishing my senior year. We were fighting constantly, and late one night she called me. Still boiling over an insult from before, I hung up on her. It turned out she had pressed Redial in the middle of being attacked and nearly raped by a man who jumped her outside of a bar. She managed to fight him off, but he broke her jaw. I didn’t know

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this until the next morning. It was as much consolation as knowing the surgery didn’t leave much of a scar. “I don’t know why she keeps calling,” I said. Amanda glared at me with one of those don’t you dare patronize me looks. I had to remind myself that Amanda was much smarter than I was. “Okay, I know why she’s calling. But she doesn’t want me back. She’s just hurting and needs someone to help.” “I don’t have a problem with that,” she said. “I know you’re a great friend. But ignoring her, telling her to leave you alone, I feel like you’re doing it for my sake rather than hers. If you want to do something, do it. But stop with the I don’t know why she’s calling crap.” “I don’t want to do anything,” I said. “I have you. That’s where my attention deserves to be.” I wrapped my arms around Amanda, held her close, hoped she knew I was telling the truth. “I turned my back on her once,” I said. “I just don’t want to be cruel. I know she’s been having problems. I’ve heard she’s been drinking too much, that she’s alienated her friends. Being the daughter of a political animal is a full-time job, and Mya wanted to have her own life.” “Look,” she said, “I’m not saying you should leave the girl to drown in a distillery, I’m just saying this isn’t normal. Forget any girlfriend neuroses, it’s just not healthy for someone to do what she’s doing. If you don’t clear things up, it’s only going to get worse.” “You think so?” I asked. “Come on, she’s not the only girl who’s ever wanted a guy she couldn’t get.” I stared at Amanda, cocked my head. “Oh, give it a rest. You think you’re the first guy I’ve ever liked? Come off your high horse, Johnny. I had a life before we met.” “I know you had a life. I know there were probably other

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guys,” I said. “I just don’t want to know about them, hear about them, or think that they exist. I’d rather believe you wore a chastity belt your first twenty-five years, and the only guys you liked were flamingly gay men who wore big bushy mustaches and called you ‘girlfriend’ in an ironic manner.” She laughed. “Now who’s kidding who? Just think, though, if you can react like that to me just insinuating I’ve liked other guys, imagine how I feel that a girl you actually had a relationship with is begging for your jock at 3:00 a.m.” “She’s not… Okay, you have a point.” “I usually do.” “Okay, I promise to talk to Mya. Now I have to get to work, time’s wasting. I need to find out where this gun came from. First I need to talk to Jack.” I opened the phone, dialed O’Donnell’s direct line. He picked up on the first ring. “Hello?” “Jack, it’s Henry. You busy?” “I was going to have my shoes shined, and hope a stray bullet didn’t find my old ass.” “Listen, can you meet me at O’Grady’s restaurant in twenty minutes?” “You want me to leave the office to meet you somewhere, you’d better give me a reason, and it better not be that you’re in the mood for an undercooked hamburger.” “No, but I might have a hell of a scoop on the Paradis murders, and I need some help.” “Are you stupid, kid? Half the Gazette goes to O’Grady’s for lunch. Meet me at McPhee’s pub in twenty, at least we can talk in private. Besides, it’s the only bar in a ten-block radius that charges less than five bucks a beer. What’s the occasion for this midday imbibing?”

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“I need you to use the archives and run a search for me, then bring whatever you can find.” “A search for what?” “Guns,” I said. “I need to know what museums and collections carry authentic Winchester rifles, model 1873.” “The gun that won the West,” Jack said, a sense of romance in his voice. “John Wayne would be proud. What does this have to do with the murders?” “I’ll tell you then,” I said. “But I think this killer is more than just a fan of history—I think he’s trying to re-create the bloodiest parts.”

21 I

walked into McPhee’s pub. And immediately decided that I never wanted to go back again. McPhee’s was the kind of dive bar you were happy to get into in college despite your crummy fake ID, where the bouncer weighed upward of six hundred pounds and was covered in tattoos that looked like they’d been painted on by an epileptic spider monkey. Where the bartender served beer whose advertisements settled for round men in green hats because they couldn’t afford buxom women in bikinis. Where the decibel level never rose above “angry grumble.” Yep, this was Jack O’Donnell’s kind of bar. I walked past several booths that contained paper menus stuck under dirty glass. The walls were lined with flickering neon beer signs, the owners apparently making a statement (that statement being “we don’t pay our electric bill”). I found Jack O’Donnell in the very back of the bar, sitting alone in a dimly lit booth. He was sipping a brown liquid which, by the fill line, had been an inch higher before I arrived. “Having a midday nip?” I asked. “It’s eleven in the morning. Either you don’t get much sleep or you have no concept of what midday means.”

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“Actually I was just trying to make a bad joke.” “Bad jokes don’t get funny just because you admit they’re bad.” Jack took another sip. A waitress came by, her hair done up in one of those fishing nets that all the classy ladies were wearing. She was also chewing gum. I could have sworn chewing gum while serving food had been outlawed alongside smoking and trans fat, but I stayed silent. “Can I getcha?” “Coors,” I said. “Bottle or draft?” I looked at Jack’s drink. Noticed an unidentifiable speck on the rim. “Definitely a bottle.” She smacked her gum and left. “Probably the safe choice,” Jack said. “I’ve been known to make a few.” Jack took another long sip. His cheeks were red; I could even sense it under his beard. No doubt he’d had a nip or two before I got to the bar, but I wondered if Jack’s drinking calendar had been more busy than usual. “I have a few leads on the Paradis murders,” I said. Jack said, “I thought you asked me here on a date.” I scowled at him. “So what have you come up with, boy wonder?” The waitress came back with my beer. I felt relieved as she popped the bottle cap in front of me. Somehow I wouldn’t put it past this place to refill empty bottles from the tap. “It was confirmed that Athena Paradis and Joe Mauser were killed by the same caliber bullet. And it’s only a matter of time before the cops release a statement confirming the same bullet and weapon was used to kill Jeffrey Lourdes.” Jack mimicked jerking off, yawning while he did so. Nobody ever said he wasn’t a classy guy. “That’s been run-

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ning all morning, first or second lead in every major newspaper. It won’t make Wallace bat an eye. What else you got, Nancy Drew?” “You’re an asshole, you know?” “I know. So spill it.” “The actual bullet used was a magnum .44-40. Very uncommon usage due to its high recoil and over-the-top stopping power.” “That’s true. Cops don’t need to go around blowing suspects in half,” Jack said. “Exactly. So it seemed odd to me that a murderer who obviously went to great lengths to take down Athena and Mayor Perez, not to mention Jeffrey Lourdes, in such a public manner would use such an unusual bullet to do the job.” “You’re thinking…” “The killer chose the caliber of the bullets on purpose.” “Keep talking.” I smiled, took a gulp of my beer. Jack was interested. His shoulders were hunched forward. He hadn’t touched his drink in several minutes. “Figure if he’s using a rifle, he’s also gotta be carrying around something to transport it in,” I said. “Suitcase, knapsack. And he’s likely staying near transportation, a subway stop or bus terminal.” “You’re not the only one who’s thought of that. Rather than have cops sit in the subway and wait for guys in turbans carrying ticking packages to walk by, the NYPD has started searching bags over a certain length and width that are brought into the subway. They’re searching hotels within walking distance of the stops, as well,” Jack replied. “That’s a start, but we can’t just follow the cops and report

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on Carruthers’s statements. I want to go ahead and follow up on the gun. Amanda was able to hook me up with one of her old professors who’s a hair away from certifiable. I gave her a description of the bullet and rifle, and we think the killer is using an 1873 Winchester. Like you said, the Winchester 1873 model is known as ‘The Gun that Won the West.’ It was by far the most popular model of that era, was used by every famous lawman and lawbreaker whose ass got sore from horseback riding.” “This sounds awful thin,” Jack said. My heart sank. “But it also sounds awfully intriguing. And nobody’s covered this angle yet?” “Not that I know of. But take that gun and the quote from Billy the Kid, and I’d say this killer has a serious obsession with the Old West. Somehow Athena Paradis, Mayor Perez and Jeffrey Lourdes are connected in this guy’s mind. The other day you talked about Billy the Kid being some sort of Robin Hood.” I stopped, looked at Jack. “What if this guy really thinks he was right in killing those people? You know Wallace won’t let me run with the story as is.” “Not with your primary source being a college history professor, he won’t. Even with the gun and ballistics it’s too tenuous.” “Were you able to get those papers?” I asked. Jack reached into his briefcase, pulled out a leather folder. From the folder he retrieved several pages of printouts. “Every museum in the fifty that has a registered Winchester ’73,” he said. “Oh man, this is beautiful. Thanks a ton.” “Don’t sweat it.” “Can’t imagine Wallace will green-light any expenses for this, either.”

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“Doubtful. That assistant who witnessed Lourdes’s murder,” Jack said. “Betty Grable.” “She had to be transferred to Bellevue. Seeing her boss killed like that, something snapped. Hate to say it, but it’s a good thing you got a minute of her time.” “That’s terrible,” I said. “Ripples, Henry. Not just the dead are affected by death.” “Guess not.” “That quote,” Jack said. “Billy the Kid. You got something, but it’s not nearly concrete enough for Wallace to let you print it.” “I’ll find more,” I said. “But I need time, resources.” Jack looked at me, seemed to be weighing something. Then he took a pen and pad from the briefcase. He opened the pad, scribbled something on it, then ripped off a piece of paper and handed it to me. It was a check for two thousand dollars. “Jack, I can’t possibly…” “Take it,” he said. “This will buy you some resources. And if it leads to anything, I expect to be reimbursed.” “And if it doesn’t lead to anything?” Jack smiled. “Then I expect one hell of a birthday present.” I had nothing to say, but, “Thank you.” “Don’t mention it again,” Jack said. He finished his drink, set it down. The waitress came over and he nodded for one more. He saw my eyes following his. “Trust me, kid, once you get to my age you can’t underestimate the importance of a good drink.” “I’ll remember that, but I have a few years.” “Yeah, you do, but they go by quick. Wasn’t long ago I was meeting my boss for drinks. Now,” Jack said. “That girl you’re with. Amanda’s her name, right?”

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“That’s right.” In the year and a half since I’d known Jack, we’d never discussed Amanda other than platitudes and pleasantries. “And you two met during the Fredrickson fiasco.” “They say the best relationships are born out of extreme circumstances.” Jack’s eyes had a flicker of recognition. “I think I heard that in a movie once.” “Probably.” “How are things going between you two?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Good, I guess. We’re living together. Soon, I know, after everything that happened, but it feels good.” “That’s nice,” Jack said wistfully. “Another thing you can never underestimate is companionship.” Jack, I knew, had been married, and divorced, three times. “So I guess you’d say it’s serious.” I laughed. “Yeah, I think so. Besides, if Amanda ever knew I said no to that question I’d wake up the next morning with no teeth.” “Feisty, is she?” “She’d kick feisty’s ass down the block.” “That’s good,” Jack said, smiling. “You know I look at you across this table, you look at me the same way I used to look at Petey Vincent.” “The name rings a bell,” I said. “Petey Vincent was my idol growing up. Those days, newsmen were the toast of the city. You reported the hot stories, had more groupies than ballplayers, spent the evenings at your Park Avenue homes and ate caviar. Nowadays the only way a reporter eats caviar is if an I-banker sends it to them at Christmas. It’s a thankless job, so you gotta really love it.”

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“I do,” I said. “What I’m saying is,” Jack continued, “if you want to be a great reporter, you need to keep Amanda this far from you.” He held out his arm, as though holding up a wall. “Why would I want to do that?” “I’m not going to ask if you love her,” Jack said. “Love is easier to find than you think. But nobody remembers great love. People remember great men and women for who they are, not who they love. At some point in every relationship, you have to make a choice as to what your priorities are. At some point this job will demand more of your time than your loved ones are willing to give up. And when that happens, you can either be prepared for it or you get overwhelmed. You’ll end up a half-assed reporter and a half-assed husband. And then you’ll have nothing.” The waitress came back with a refill of Jack’s drink. She noticed that neither of us were speaking. “Getcha another?” she said, nodding at my half-finished beer. “No, thanks.” She clicked her gum and walked away. “I don’t think I could ever give her up,” I said. Jack sighed, looked down. “Then you’ll make a fine beat journalist. Live with exposed brick and take the subway because you can’t afford taxis.” “That’s not why I do this job.” “Of course it’s not,” Jack said. “But in any industry, the money level rises as the talent itself does. The better you are, the more you’re needed. And when the money comes, so does love. It might not be the forever kind of love people with shitty mortgages have, it might not last until you die, but it’s good enough to make you smile every once in a while. And that’s what life is about, in the end. When you stare into the abyss, you want a smile to come back at you. Even if it’s just sometimes.”

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“I have that,” I said. I felt a pressure on my chest. I took a sip of beer and swallowed it down. “You try to make everyone happy, you wind up making nobody happy. Anyway,” Jack said, raising his glass, “here’s to the story. Let’s find out more about this asshole, and hopefully put an end to it. Keep digging, Henry. Just don’t stand too close to the hole.”

22 I needed to find out who might have gotten hold of an authentic 1873 Winchester, and how. Thankfully Jack had managed to pull together a file of many major gun collectors and museums. It was a haystack, to be sure, but one of these haystacks either sold their needle, or had it stolen. Jack had given me another thread, and now I needed to pull. I went to the office, turned on my computer and ran a search for “Winchester 1873” and “stolen.” Only 149 hits came back. I searched through every entry, looking for anything that could be a piece of thread. Most of the articles were police and newspaper reports of replica Winchesters stolen from gun shows. No help there. I wasn’t looking for a replica. Whoever was using that gun was using the real deal. None of the 149 hits went anywhere that looked promising. I ran a new search, this time for “Winchester 1873” and “museum.” Over four hundred responses came back. I refined my search by adding the words “authentic” and “working.” Now we were down to thirty-two hits. I sifted through each entry, arriving at the estimation of fifteen museums in the United States that listed authentic

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Winchester 1873 rifles among their collections, along with some sort of reference to the gun being in working condition. My first call was to the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum, located in Waco. I got an automated system, pressed zero for the operator. A nice woman with a wonderful Southern drawl picked up the phone. “Ranger Museum, how may I help ya?” “Hi, do you still have an exhibit featuring the Winchester 1873 rifle?” “Gun that won the West, we surely do. It’s open from nine ayem to six pee-yem. Day passes are a dollar fifty, yearround pass is twelve dollars. That’s the better deal, y’ask me.” “How long have you had that rifle?” “Oh, heck, I’ve been here three years and it’s been here long as I have, I’d have to ask for sure though.” “And you’ve had no other rifles come and go since then?” “Why no…may I ask your interest?” “That’s okay, I appreciate the help.” I hung up. I called ten more museums. Each one could currently account for their Winchesters, and had seen none go missing in recent memory. Then I dialed the twelfth number on my contact sheet, the Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen in Fort Sumner, New Mexico. “MOL Museum, this is Rex speaking.” “Hi, Rex, I’m calling because I read somewhere that you have an authentic, working Winchester 1873 rifle in stock. Is that true?” “It ain’t in stock,” Rex said, “this is a museum, not a sidewalk sale, son.” “Sorry, but you do have one.” “Why yes, sir, we do.”

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“Just one?” There was a split second of silence before Rex answered, and I picked up on it. “Why, yes, one’s just about all we need.” “Have any rifles come in or left the museum for any reason over the last year?” “Listen, you care to tell me what all these questions are about?” “I was just wondering…” “Our gun is here, it’s in great shape and it looks a lot better in person than it does over the phone.” For a moment I assumed we’d been disconnected, but then I heard the dial tone and knew Rex had hung up on me. My heart began to beat faster. But I had to confirm it. I dialed the number again. The same man picked up. “Hi, I just called about your Winchester 1873 model rifle, and—” “Hey, either come to the museum like all normal folks or stop calling.” Once again I was greeted by a dial tone. I stared at the phone for a moment. This museum clearly didn’t like my line of questioning. Then I recalled that the museum was in New Mexico. The heart of the Old West. I picked up the receiver and dialed again. This time a different number. It picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Henry,” Amanda said. “Missed me much?” “I have to go to New Mexico,” I said. “And I need to leave tonight.” There was silence on the other end. “Does that mean I shouldn’t wait for you for dinner?” “If you don’t mind waiting until tomorrow to eat.” “As if I don’t have enough trouble getting out of bed in

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the morning,” she said. “So you found something out there? New Mexico?” “Yeah, something to do with the murders. I know it.” “Something about the gun?” “Yeah, I think I have a lead at a museum.” “Then go. Do whatever you can to find this guy,” she said. “I’ll be here when you get back. Dinner might be a bit cold, though. I’ll just rename it vichyssoise and call it a gourmet meal.” I laughed. “No way. When I get back you’re getting the finest grilled cheese in North America.” “I’ll keep a bowl of Kix nearby just in case.” “Thanks, babe. I’ll call you when I leave.” Then I hung up and checked departure times for flights to New Mexico.

23 I

cashed Jack’s check at a local Chase branch, then took a cab home and threw a pile of clothes into a duffel bag, hoping I’d buck the odds and end up with a matching outfit or two. I took the Xeroxes from Agnes Trimble’s book, packed them in a valise. As I zipped up the duffel, I stared at the bed. Neither Amanda nor I had bothered to make it that morning. I could still make out the ruffled sheets where we’d lain the night before. I could re-create it; where Amanda’s arm lay across my chest, where her legs curled around mine. My hand gently stroking her leg, the way she smiled and kissed my cheek. I had to leave before I thought about it anymore, because the more I did the more Jack’s words resonated. I made sure my phone was charged and I had a clean notebook and tape recorder. The bills made my wallet fat. I thought about the last time I traveled across the country, several men wanting me dead and Amanda unaware of the lie I’d fed her. And now she shared my bed. I still had to prove myself to her, and to do so I had to put her life before mine. And yet for the first time since we started seeing each

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other, despite how much I loved her, I thought about my conversation with Jack and wondered if Amanda deserved better. Another cab sped me to the Continental terminal at LaGuardia Airport. I ran to the reservations desk and made the seven-thirty nonstop flight to Albuquerque, New Mexico. I paid the five-hundred-and-sixty-dollar round-trip ticket with a handful of cash, drawing a slightly raised eyebrow from the woman at the ticket counter. “How long is the flight?” “Four hours and thirty-five minutes,” she replied, eyes down as she counted out the numerous crisp twenties. “And what’s the time difference in Albuquerque?” “New Mexico is on Mountain Standard Time. Two hours earlier than New York.” “Is there an in-flight movie?” “Let me check…that would be Shrek 2.” “Couldn’t get Shrek 3?” She did not find me funny. My flight was scheduled to land at midnight, or ten New Mexico time. On arrival, I still had to rent a car and drive down to Fort Sumner, which was about a hundred and sixty miles southeast of Albuquerque. Barring any major driving mishaps or being kidnapped by a herd of mountain lions, I’d make the drive in two, two and a half hours, putting me in Fort Sumner at about twelve-thirty. The museum would be long closed, so I’d have to find a friendly bed-and-breakfast. All of this, of course, while having no clue about local customs or directions. You had to love seat-of-your-pants journalism. I grabbed my boarding pass, bought copies of the Gazette and the Dispatch and headed toward the gate. There I sucked down a cup of coffee and a cheese Danish, and waited. There were

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barely twenty people waiting for the flight, reading newspapers and paperbacks and counting the minutes until departure. The plane boarded a mere twenty minutes later, and I was lucky enough to get a whole row to myself. I took the window seat, raised the armrests and spread my legs. I put the newspapers on the seat next to me and yawned, my head resting gently against the window, the fading light making my eyes heavy. The next thing I knew I woke up as the plane was landing. I ambled drearily off the plane, then pissed off a dozen grumpy passengers when I had to double back and grab my carry-on bag. After a pit stop at a Coffee Beanery, I followed signs to the car rental area and filled out the paperwork for a beige 2001 Chevy Impala. I paid in cash, hemmed and hawed about insurance and finally caved in. With any luck Jack would get reimbursed. I took half a dozen maps of every conceivable location and asked the clerk to highlight the best routes for me to drive to Fort Sumner. “Lot of history there,” he said. “You going for business or pleasure?” “Little of both.” “Well, don’t spend so much time on business you don’t enjoy yourself. If you’re an Old West buff, you can’t do any better than old Fort Sumner.” “That right?” “Damn right. Buy me a few replicas down there every year, give ’em to the nephews to play cowboys and Indians. Three littlest ones always fight to see who gets to be Jesse James. Funny, everyone always wants to be the bad guy.” “Guess being a good guy isn’t as much fun.” “Guess not,” he said.

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“Is it hard to find a motel down there? Somewhere for a bite?” “Shoot, not at all. Second most popular attraction Fort Sumner has after old guns is vacancy signs.” I thanked him and took the keys to my Impala. He told me to wait outside for a company shuttle, grabbed it for a silent seven-minute ride to the lot. I stepped outside, remembering to reset my watch. Then I took a deep breath. The Albuquerque airport resembled a mesa as designed by Frank Lloyd Wright—the façade a dark brown, with square geometric shapes and light blue cornering. The skies were clear, the air thick and humid, so I took off my jacket and wrapped it around my waist. Fashion be damned. Unsurprisingly my Impala was one of several dozen available. I climbed in, put my coffee in the cup holder, adjusted my seat and began the drive. I took the I-25 North exit and headed toward downtown Santa Fe. Once I was reasonably sure I wasn’t about to drive into a telephone pole or have a pack of wolves chase me, I took out my cell phone headset and called Amanda. Nobody picked up and it went right to voice mail. “Hey, it’s me. Just wanted to let you know I landed safe. I’m driving a seven-year-old Chevy Impala with thirtyseven thousand miles on it. There’s barely anyone else on the road. Actually, I think I might be the only person driving in New Mexico right now. Anyway, I love you, call me when you get this.” The drive was much easier than I expected, the coffee keeping my blood percolating, but the breathtaking scenery was what really kept my eyes open. Despite the set sun, there was just enough light to make out the stunning mesas and

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even snow-capped peaks miles and miles away. It was a far cry from the city, where I’d become accustomed to metal towers and gridlock. I listened to the absolute silence, just stared into the black horizon and tried to take in a part of the country most people back east barely believed existed. When I finally arrived in Fort Sumner, I stopped at a Super 8, parked the Impala and stepped inside. The lobby was filled with framed documents that looked a hundred years old, and a kiosk held a handful of county maps and brochures for various tourist attractions. The night manager wore an actual cowboy hat, and booked my room with a sleepy smile. I studied the documents as I passed, and could immediately tell that not only did Fort Sumner house a great deal of history, it was damn proud of it. I grabbed a handful of brochures, including a pamphlet for the Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen. It opened at 9:00 a.m. I wanted to be the first one there. The rooms were like any typical hotel—brown drapes, floral comforters, paintings of old men fishing and settled lakes reflecting moonlight. My cell phone log had three missed calls: two from the Gazette, one from Amanda. I set my alarm for 7:30 a.m., remembering the time difference. Figured that would give me enough time to shower and grab a quick bite. My jeans felt like they were glued to my legs, so I peeled them off, tossed them on top of my shirt. I checked myself out in the mirror, patted my stomach. New York food had been good to me. I did fifty pushups and thirty crunches and then fell into bed after my right triceps cramped up. I turned off the light and closed my eyes, and then my phone rang. It read Amanda Cell. I answered it.

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“Hey.” “Hey yourself. How’s the great outdoors?” “I’m staying in a Super 8. And it does have a roof.” “Okay, how’s the great Super 8?” “Better than a Motel 6.” “Ooh, don’t let Motel 6 hear that. So how was the flight?” “Not too bad, actually left almost on time, which I don’t think has ever happened to me before. I have to be up early tomorrow to get to the museum.” “Early bird gets the homicidal maniac’s rifle, huh?” “I think Socrates said that.” “So, you think there’s a lead there?” “Yeah, I do. You don’t hang up on a question unless you’ve got something to hide.” “Guess they won’t be able to hide much when you show up.” “That’s the idea.” “Well, I’ll let you get to sleep, Henry.” I waited a moment to hear if she would say anything else. I wanted to ask it, but almost felt like by doing so I was ringing a bell that couldn’t be silenced. But I had to. “Amanda? Are we okay?” “Yeah…” she said, hesitantly. “Why would you even ask that?” My stomach clenched. “Just making sure. G’night, babe.” “Sleep well. Go get ’em tomorrow.” “I will. Night.” She hung up. I placed the phone on the nightstand and closed my eyes. It was barely five minutes later when the phone beeped again. Just once. I had a text message. I opened the phone, clicked Text Messages. The message was from Mya. It read: Im Sorry. ForGIve Me.

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I stared at the phone for a moment, wondered what she meant by it. Then it hit me, and I smiled. As my eyes closed, I was glad to know Mya was finally moving on with her life, offering the closure I’d needed for so long.

24 I

was dressed and ready to go by eight. Into my bag went a tape recorder, pen and notepad, and the copies of the Winchester 1873 Xerox from Agnes Trimble. I bought a muffin and slammed down a cup of coffee in the small motel dining room. My worry about standing out was assuaged, seems jeans and a T-shirt are common just about everywhere. The manager, a short, cherry-cheeked woman named Marjorie, inquired as to the purpose of my visit. “I’m a history buff,” I said. “Ooh!” she squealed, nearly spilling the pot of coffee. “Then you’ve definitely come to the right place. Are you going to the Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen?” “That’s actually my first stop.” “Oh goodness, if you love history, you won’t be able to get enough of that place. My husband and I make a trip once a month, and as soon as the kids are old enough we’re buying family passes. Jesse James, Annie Oakley, Pat Garrett, John Tunstall, Billy the Kid, gosh, it’s just enough to get a person excited.” She gave me a mischievous grin and leaned closer. “Just don’t be stealin’ nothin’.” I eyed her, confused. “What do you mean?”

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“Oh, let’s just say things have a way of disappearing around this town. Collectors and vagabonds are absolutely shameless. It’s a real pity, how little respect some folks have. If you take a look at John Chisum’s military sword in the museum,” she said, leaning closer, “it ain’t the real thing. Real sword was stolen ten ought years ago. They just tell people it’s the real thing to keep up appearances, save money on insurance.” I took out the brochure, looked at the dozens of guns, swords and artifacts in the pictures. “Is that so,” I said, not so much a question. “Places like that keep this town going,” she added. “Heck, there wouldn’t be any need for this hotel without them. Anyway, enjoy your trip, don’t worry ’bout what I said. There’s enough real history in that place to send you home happier’n a pig in slop.” I thanked Marjorie, grabbed my recorder and notebook and headed out. The museum was on East Sumner Avenue, less than half a mile from the motel. It was just past eight-thirty. All the houses and shops looked like they’d been pulled from old Western movies. Low-hanging awnings, typeface with old-style lettering, bright yellows and reds slapped on warped wooden signs. It was like the town was bending over backward to retain its precious nostalgia. The Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen was a one-story building that occupied most of one block. Sitting outside were two pitch-black cannons aimed at each other across the entryway, as though daring visitors to step past. Beside them stood a carriage-style wheel, painted bright yellow. The signage showed an image of a man leaning on a rifle. A rifle which, upon closer inspection, looked pretty darn like a Winchester 1873.

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There were no lights on and the windows were barricaded. Not boarded, but barricaded as though the museum was defending itself from an impending attack. And if Marjorie was telling the truth, maybe it needed that line of defense. I wiggled the front door, which was locked, but nothing that would have prevented anyone with amateur lock-picking skills and ten free minutes from circumventing. I stuck my hands in my pockets and waited. At ten to nine, a thirty-something man with shoulderlength sandy blond hair, tattered jeans and cowboy boots, walked past the cannons. He nodded at me, took a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked the front door. He turned to me and said, “You here for the museum?” “Yessir,” I said. “You a college boy?” I smiled. “No, sir, a few years out. Just came to visit.” He nodded, as though that was a suitable answer. “Just give me ten minutes to open up.” He went inside and I waited. Twelve minutes later he propped the front door open and waved me inside. The museum was astonishing. It only consisted of four or five large rooms, but each room was packed to the gills with antique guns, bullets, cannons, actual carriages, bows and arrows, belts, rifles and every and any other weapon that looked like it might have been used by, or against, John Wayne. The walls were covered with glassed-in documents that were remarkably well-preserved, along with photos of the writers and/or recipients of the correspondence. The air had a musty smell, the floor speckled with sawdust. The manager took a seat behind a counter, put his feet up and opened a newspaper.

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“You need anything,” he said to me, “just holler.” Behind the counter hung several replica guns that were available for purchase. Several boxes of dead ammunition lined the shelves. A small sign read 10 Shells For $5. I paid the ten-dollar entrance fee. A few other visitors ambled in after me, also happy to pay and gaze at the history of violence. I took a slow lap around, surveying the dozens of guns, even running my fingers along the cannons that guarded the entryway into each new room. One room was decorated to resemble an Old West blacksmith’s shop, complete with anvil and tools, bent metals and horseshoes. Along the walls were rifle parts in various stages of development, like a before-andafter of gun manufacturing. After sating my curiosity, I made my way around the museum until I found the exhibit featuring the military cavalry sword of John Chisum which Marjorie claimed was a fake. The sword was mounted in a glass case nearly four feet long. The blade was slightly curved. I examined the security glass, wondered if the sword had actually been stolen. And if so, why it had never been reported. Behind the sword was a black-and-white photograph featuring a caravan of horses, and a portrait of a man who was presumably John Chisum. A black placard above the sword explained that Chisum was a cattle driver, and one of the first to send a herd into New Mexico. Chisum was a tangential part of the infamous Lincoln County Wars, a feud between businessmen Alexander McSween and John Tunstall and their rivals Lawrence Murphy and James Dolan. During these wars, Chisum had been accosted by a band of outlaws known as the Regulators. The Regulators

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were notorious cattle thieves, who pilfered from Chisum and other herders, but were deputized after Tunstall’s murder. They hunted down the men who killed Tunstall, killing four including a corrupt sheriff named William Brady. According to a placard on the wall, the Regulators consisted of men named Dick Brewer, Jim French, Frank McNab, John Middleton, Fred Waite, Henry Brown and Henry McCarty. Next to the name of Henry McCarty, it read: aka William H. Bonney, aka Billy the Kid. In the very last room of the museum I found what I’d come across the country for: an exhibit featuring the Winchester 1873. Behind a crystal-clear glass case was mounted a pristine Winchester, along with various posters and propaganda leaflets. I took out the Winchester Xeroxes, compared them. The weapon in front of me looked identical to the one on the page. Inside the case on a poster, written in big bold letters beneath two opposing firing pistols, were the words: Winchester 1873 edition: The Gun That Won the West. There were several bullets mounted to the display below the weapon. A placard identified them as authentic .44-40 magnum ammunition, the very kind used by that edition Winchester. I compared the gun and the Xerox until I was reasonably certain they were one and the same. Then I waited until the museum had quieted and the manager was free of troublesome tourists. He was reading a copy of the Albuquerque Journal, looked bored to death, but he set it on the counter when he saw me approach. “Help you?” he said. I pointed at the relics lining the walls. “This is some pretty amazing stuff,” I said, opening a window for him.

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“Man, you don’t have to tell me that. I get a buzz just sitting behind this desk.” The Albuquerque Journal was still splayed open on the counter. “No doubt,” I said absently. I nodded at the display containing Chisum’s military sword. “How’d you come upon that beauty?” “John Chisum,” he said without thinking. “One of the most influential cattle drivers in U.S. history. Blazed the Chisum trail from Paris, Texas, all the way to the Pecos Valley. You know John Wayne himself played John Chisum in a movie?” “No messing? Which one?” “Was called Chisum.” “Guess that makes sense.” “Anyway, when Mr. Chisum passed on, died in Eureka Springs, his great granddaughter endowed this museum with the sword. D’you know Chisum’s only children were born to him by a slave girl he owned?” “I didn’t know that.” “’At’s a true fact.” “Sword like that,” I said, “probably worth, what, few grand?” I saw the man’s eyes twitch, and he looked down for a split second. “Try a few hundred grand. The country’s swarming with collectors of old Western antiques. ’Course most of ’em call it memorabilia, like a freaking baseball card. Most of ’em wouldn’t know a Winchester from Worcestershire sauce, and I never heard of a baseball card used in a gunfight.” “Speaking of antiques,” I said. “Is that a real Winchester ’73 on the wall?” The man’s chest puffed out with pride. “You’re darn right it is. Gun that won the West, gun that made this country what it is today. Winchester made over

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seven hundred thousand of those darlin’s back in the day. Nowadays, a ’73 in working condition goes for upward of six figures on the open market.” “Bet it goes for even more on the closed market,” I said. The man winked at me, smirked. “You’d probably be right there.” “Can’t imagine the security you must have in place to keep valuables like that. I mean, there must be a few million dollars’ worth of memorabilia here.” The man bristled. “We take the proper precautions,” he said. “Have you ever had a break-in? A robbery?” The man took a split second too long to say, “Never.” “That Winchester,” I said. “How long have you kept that particular rifle in this museum?” He took several seconds to say, “I reckon upward of ten years.” “And you’ve never been robbed.” Finally he took a step back, eyed me suspiciously. “Mind if I ask what you’re asking all these questions fer?” “I’m sorry,” I said. I reached into my bag, pulled out the tape recorder and notepad first, and then my press identification. “Henry Parker. Pleasure to meet you. I’m a reporter with the New York Gazette. And I don’t think that Winchester in your case is authentic. In fact, I’m willing to bet the gun that’s supposed to be in that case is the same one used in three recent murders in New York this past week.” The blood drained from the man’s face, and his jaw dropped just a bit. “Murders, you’re sayin’? I read something in the papers, that pretty blond girl…” “Athena Paradis,” I said. “She was killed by a—” he nodded his head toward the Winchester case “—model ’73?”

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I said nothing, turned on the tape recorder. “That’s a replica Winchester in your case, isn’t it? Where’s the original?” “I’d like you to leave right now.” “If your Winchester was stolen, I need to know now. We need to alert the authorities in New York. More lives are in danger. Someone is using your gun and—” “I don’t know anything about that,” he said, and picked up the phone. I had seconds before he called the cops and I was done. I looked at the nameplate. It read Rex Sheehan. “Rex,” I said. His eyes met mine. “Even if you call the cops, at the very least they’ll want to run tests on the gun. If you tell me now, at least we can try to keep some people alive.” Rex put down the phone. He bowed his head and crossed himself. “I wanted to tell someone,” he said solemnly. “But we don’t have the money for security. We’re not a governmentfunded museum like that fancy one down at New Mexico State. We get by on donations. And if you look around, I don’t need to tell you we’re not exactly the Met here.” “So somebody broke in and stole the gun,” I said. “Did they steal anything else?” He shook his head. His lip trembled. I felt sorry for him. “Please don’t tell anyone this,” he said. “If people find out we’re displaying a fake they’ll just stop coming altogether. Besides, it doesn’t really matter, does it? If people think it’s real, who gets hurt?” “There are three dead people in New York who can answer that better than me.” Rex bowed his head. “But it still doesn’t add up,” I said. “1873 Winchesters are a rare model, but not extinct, right?” “No, there’s a few still out there. Collectors, mostly.”

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“So why come all the way out to Fort Sumner, New Mexico? Why would someone rob a museum when there had to be easier ways?” Again Rex said nothing. “Tell me about the gun,” I said. “It’s not just a model 1873, is it? There’s something else.” The man nodded. “The gun that was stolen,” he sobbed, “the one you’re saying was used in those murders, well it belonged to William H. Bonney. Most people know him as Billy the Kid.”

25 Paulina Cole wrote long into the night. She wrote until the other offices at the Dispatch were dark, until her colleagues had long ago gone home and surrendered to the comfort of a glass of wine and their inviting beds. She sewed together the interview like a trained surgeon, connecting arteries, nerves and capillaries together to create one body of work that would pump blood and live just the way she wanted it to. Read the way she wanted it to. She could picture Mya Loverne’s face, that poor, destroyed face, the shell of a girl whose life’s flame had been snuffed out long before its time. So many factors had driven Mya to the brink. Thanks to her father’s chummy relationship with most gossip columnists, the majority of his philandering never made it to the printed page. That didn’t mean it didn’t ruin many a dinner conversation, estrange a daughter in the midst of the most difficult time of her life. Now it was time to collect on that debt. Mya had suffered terribly. But through pain she would regain her life. She was the victim. And the culprit was not only her lech of a father, but Henry Parker, as well. Henry had fractured Mya, literally and figuratively. All her

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troubles since the dissolution of their relationship had applied leverage to that emotional fracture, spreading it until she cracked open fully. Paulina had dozens of pages scattered about her desk, three empty cups of coffee strewn about. She picked up the pages, plucked a sentence from different ones, felt her collar begin to burn when she read over all the stories about Henry she’d written last year. Henry, who came to New York as Jack O’Donnell and Wallace Langston’s golden boy. Who was accused of murder and embarrassed the profession she’d devoted her life to. If payback was a bitch, Paulina was its mother. And just like Henry struck the flint that burned Mya, this story was the spark that would burn down the New York Gazette. The kindling was there, David Loverne a juicy log, and she was going to blast that place apart. Fuck Wallace. Fuck Harvey Hillerman. Fuck Jack O’Donnell. Fuck Henry Parker and everything he was. But for now, she had to keep working. Soon the paper would be printed. Soon enough, she would burn their whole house to the ground. Just several blocks away, at a desk cracked and worn with age, an old man sat typing. The desk was covered in coffee stains and pencil markings, its owner never bothering to clean them, believing they added personality. The corkboard above his computer was adorned with pictures, awards, plaques, books with his name printed on the spine, and a life dedicated to his craft. It was here that Jack O’Donnell put the finishing touches on his story for the next day’s Gazette. When the story was done, after he’d saved it on his word

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processor, made sure he’d written enough inches, and combed through to minimize any errors that would drive his editors crazy, Jack O’Donnell sat back in his chair. He pulled a flask of Jack Daniel’s from his leather briefcase and took a sip. It was a good story, one that dropped a potential bombshell on the Paradis investigation. No other paper had this. It was a Gazette exclusive. After fifty years in news, his body still tingled at the thrill of a good story. Before sending it off, Jack put the final touch on the article. Underneath the byline Jack added: With additional reporting by Henry Parker. And come morning, the sparks would fly.

26 I

stared at the weak metal fence which contained three graves resting side-by-side, one of which belonged to the outlaw known as Billy the Kid. The fence was in the middle of a large patch of dirt, surrounded by piles of flowers, photographs and even bullets. Never had I seen such gestures for such a shoddy excuse for a tomb. A headstone sat behind the graves, three names engraved on it. The stone looked fairly well-maintained, as opposed to the rest of the mausoleum. “The headstone’s been stolen three times since 1940,” Rex said. “At some point they figured it cost more to guard the darn thing than it did to throw up a new headstone. That’s why you see here a gate my eight-year-old niece could pry apart.” “Kind of like the security system in your museum,” I said, with more than a hint of sarcasm. Inside the cage were three burial mounds, side by side. At the far end of the enclosure was one large headstone engraved with three epitaphs. “That’s Tom O’Folliard and Charlie Bowdre, on the ends,” Rex said. “Friends of the Kid. Billy, he’s in the middle grave.” A marker sat in front of the graves. It was carved in bronze, about two feet tall, with a triangular top. It read:

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THE KID Born Nov. 23, 1860 Killed July 14, 1881 BANDIT KING HE DIED AS HE HAD LIVED Quarters were sprinkled atop the earth. “Tributes,” Rex said. On the headstone was chiseled one word, Pals. Above the headstone was a garish yellow sign that read Replica. And according to dozens of signs, brochures and tourist bureaus, this was the grave site of Henry McCarty, also known as William Antrim, also known as William H. Bonney, also known as Billy the Kid. “This grave site’s pretty much the only thing keeping old Fort Sumner alive,” Rex said. “State legislature made us put that ‘replica’ sign up there, but once a year or so the cops come out here to arrest some hooligans looking to steal the damn thing. I swear, ain’t nothin’ sacred anymore, they could buy their own sign for a buck ninety-five.” “But it wouldn’t have been inside Billy the Kid’s grave,” I said. “There’s a mystique to him. Just like to a murderer, there’s a mystique to using his gun.” Rex scratched at his neck. I could tell he’d long ago given in to the lore and myth of this town. I didn’t know a whole lot about Billy the Kid, only what movies or books passed down through their own lenses. I knew Billy was a celebrity in the southwest during the late 1800s, had allegedly murdered over twenty people before his twenty-first birthday, and was eventually killed by Pat Garrett, a newly appointed deputy who used to ride with the Kid. I remembered reading somewhere that other than Count Dracula, no

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other figure in popular culture had been immortalized so often on page or screen. He was a legend, plain and simple. “If you used to have Billy the Kid’s actual Winchester, the one he used to kill,” I said, “why wouldn’t you advertise the hell out of it? Why display it as a regular Winchester 1873 when it could be the highlight of your museum?” “We did, for a while,” Rex said. “Then it got stolen, and we didn’t want to take the chance. Nobody knows who the hell John Chisum is, but everyone wants a piece of the Kid. Besides, people visit old Fort Sumner to see this grave site. They come to our museum for side trips, before they spend their money on souvenirs and lunch.” “And nobody cared that it suddenly was gone?” “Anyone who asked, I told ’em some rich collector bought it.” I asked, “How long ago was it stolen?” Rex stared at the ground. “You know Billy built this town,” he said, nodding at the grave site. “That man was a goddamn hero. Most don’t look at it like that. But he fought for good.” “I bet the twenty-some-odd people he killed would disagree.” “Any war, man, you have to spill blood to do what’s right.” “Said like a true patriot,” I said, biting. “You don’t understand.” “Enlighten me.” “When he was young, Billy was hired by an Englishman named John Tunstall. Tunstall was a rancher, in a territorial feud with two men named Lawrence Murphy and James Dolan. John Tunstall aimed to take Billy under his wing, turn a troubled youth into a good man. John Tunstall was murdered by Dolan and Murphy, who’d paid Sheriff William Brady to

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carry out the crime. After that, Billy and his boys united to form a band called the Regulators. The Regulators killed Brady, and because of that, the governor of New Mexico sccked the hounds of hell on Billy and his gang. But somewhere along the line, the Regulators traded places with the devil. The Regulators wanted to kill those who’d done wrong, folks who were contaminating everything that was good.” “There’s a man in New York,” I said, “using Billy’s gun to kill people. There’s no doubt in my mind he stole that gun from your museum. A witness said the killer looked young, in his early to midtwenties.” “Just like the Kid,” Rex said. Then he cocked his head. “How old are you, Henry?” I looked at him. And didn’t answer. “Someone is looking to carry on Billy’s legacy,” I said. “You say Billy meant to create order. He wanted to kill those who’d done wrong.” “That’s right.” Rex thought for a moment. “You reckon this killer of yours is some screwed-up kid, wants to play cowboys and Indians?” “I doubt it. This isn’t just some kid who wasn’t loved enough by his mommy and daddy,” I said. “This guy has a motive. He thinks he’s doing good.” We stood there in silence, staring at the grave site of one of the most legendary murderers in history. A man who died at the age of twenty-one, having ended one life for each of his years. And yet over the years the Kid had become immortalized as a hero. An icon worthy of legend. How could a murderer incite such passion? How could a man seemingly deputized by the devil himself be remembered as an angel? A beeping sound broke the silence. I plucked my cell phone from my pocket, opened it. It was a text message from Jack. It was two sentences. When I read them, my blood ran cold.

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There’s been another murder. It’s David Loverne.

I couldn’t speak. Mya’s father. The last time I saw him was at his daughter’s side at the hospital, where… I called you, Henry. I remembered Mya’s voice on that terrible day. “I have to go,” I said to Rex, shutting the phone. “I need to get home right away. I appreciate the help.” “You gonna be, you know, telling the police about this?” “Yes, I am.” “Figures. Anyway, you’ll want to look at Brushy Bill. Dollars to dineros if it’s Billy’s legacy you’re investigating, it’s something to do with ol’ Brushy.” I nodded at Rex, then half-walked, dazed, back to the hotel. I threw everything in my duffel, jumped in the rental car and headed toward Albuquerque. The drive seemed to last for days. Visions in my mind reminded me of that night, seeing Mya’s father there, holding her hand. Me not being able to apologize because words were useless. Knowing Mya had been hurt, and that I hadn’t been there for her. Athena Paradis, Joe Mauser, Jeffrey Lourdes and now David Loverne. Somehow Mya’s father fit in the killer’s demented pattern. But how? I’d heard rumblings about David Loverne’s misdeeds. That his marriage wasn’t as rock-solid as the façade he put on in public. Many felt that at some point scandal would hit, and hit hard. It was only a matter of time. I thought of Mya, how she was so damaged, how she’d been reaching out to me and I’d been slapping her hand away. If she ever needed a friend,

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someone who used to know her better than anyone, now was the time for me to be there for her. I tried Mya’s cell phone. It went right to voice mail. I couldn’t leave a message. I had to see her. Then I remembered her text message. I’m sorry. Forgive me.

I was numb when I arrived at the airport. They charged a hundred bucks to change my flight. I paid it in cash. I called Amanda and left her a message. Then I called Jack and told him I would get to the office that night. He told me to read the Gazette and the Dispatch before I saw anybody in New York. His voice had both an urgency and sadness to it. My stomach turned over. On my way to the terminal, I stopped by a news kiosk. I grabbed a bottle of orange juice and went to the newspaper rack. Thankfully they carried both the Dispatch and the Gazette. I paid for the drink and papers and took them to the gate. Sitting down, I took a long gulp of juice and then laid the papers out on my lap. The Gazette’s headline read: Ballistics Sheds New Light On Murders Killer possibly using “Gun that won the West” by Jack O’Donnell with additional reporting by Henry Parker Then I looked at the Dispatch. There were two stories competing for dominance. The first headline read:

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Athena Paradis’s Greek Boy Toy Speaks Out Tells why murdered heiress was second to none in the bedroom Then I read the second headline. I didn’t hear the juice bottle hit the ground when I dropped it. Or the announcement that my plane was boarding. All I could see was that headline: “He Left Me Bleeding On The Street” Mya Loverne, David’s daughter, comes clean about the relationship that nearly ended her life by Paulina Cole

27 Just months ago, voters looked at congressional candidate David Loverne as a man who held family above all else. A beautiful wife, Cindy. An ambitious daughter, Mya. But all this is gone after a series of revelations that have shocked New Yorkers and destroyed a family that seemed indestructible. David Loverne is being accused of perpetuating a long affair with a former aide, Esther Margolis. Ms. Margolis claims she is pregnant with Loverne’s child, and that Mr. Loverne paid her sums totaling nearly ten thousand dollars in order to keep quiet and raise the child alone. Mr. Loverne refused comment for this article, but Ms. Margolis said, “I couldn’t face looking at my son years from now and lying to him about who his father is.”

I read the rest of the article, my heart hammering, hands shaking. Then I came to a line that nearly had me shouting in anger. It read: Yet David and Cindy Loverne are not the only members of the Loverne family whose world has been shattered.

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Mya. Paulina was going to exploit Mya’s fragility to sell newspapers. I read on, rage building inside me. When you first look at Mya Loverne, you see a woman brimming with potential. Young, with strong green eyes, a confidence and solidarity that tells you she’s taken on everything the world has thrown at her. At first glance you would think the world is this young woman’s oyster. But that isn’t the case. In fact, far from it. In the last eighteen months, Mya Loverne has been attacked. She’s had her bones broken by an attempted rapist. And she’s been abandoned by the one person who promised to be there for her. For Mya Loverne, the wine has grown warm, the roses wilted. The one person to whom this misery can be pinned is Gazette reporter Henry Parker, with whom Mya ended a three-year relationship last summer. The relationship was halted in the most disgusting, careless way possible, when Henry dumped Ms. Loverne for another woman. This was prior to Mr. Parker being accused of murder, a charge that was not pursued, despite a nationwide manhunt that left several dead. “We shared our bed and our lives for almost three years,” Mya told me when we met yesterday at a coffee shop near her apartment. “Do you know what it’s like to have someone know every intimate detail of your life and then not even return your phone calls?” The original sin, however, was the night last year when Mya was attacked while on her way home from a party. “A man pulled me into an alley,” Mya told me, the

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pain from that night still evident in her eyes so many months later. “He wanted to rape me. He told me he was going to hurt me.” In an effort to call for help, Mya pressed the redial button on her cellular phone. It dialed the last number she’d called. Her boyfriend, Henry Parker. “I called him while this man was on top of me,” Mya said. “And Henry hung up.” Thankfully Mya, ever resourceful, was able to get a shot of pepper spray off, deterring her attacker from committing the heinous crime of rape. It did not, however, prevent him from breaking Mya’s jaw in retaliation. Henry Parker, though, did not see Mya until the next day, when after a frantic night of phone calls from Mya’s parents they were unable to locate him. The reason they couldn’t find Henry? “He told me,” said Mya, “that after he hung up he turned his cell phone off.” We all know how Henry Parker has destroyed the family of his former pursuer Officer Joseph Mauser, deceased, John Fredrickson, deceased, and Linda Fredrickson, widowed. We have seen the careless havoc he has wrought upon the lives of good and decent people like Mya Loverne. And yet he is allowed to cover the news for this city’s “esteemed” newspaper, the Gazette. Well, readers, if this is the kind of human being they have reporting the news, the kind of human being Harvey Hillerman and Wallace Langston claim is qualified to enter your lives every morning, I must say this is a dark day in the history of journalism, and for humanity itself. The question is, fellow citizens, will you stand for men like David Loverne and Henry Parker occupying

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prestigious roles in our society? If you’re like me, the answer is obvious. Rise up, and demand more from our newsmen and our leaders. Demand they be held accountable for their actions. Demand that they not be allowed to harm one more innocent life. I put the paper down. Noticed the newsprint smudged on my fingers. Didn’t bother to wipe it off. My hand trembled as I laid it down. In an article about the infidelity of David Loverne, Paulina had stooped to a level lower than I imagined possible. Mya. The article had clearly been written and submitted before her father’s murder. I called you, Henry. And I didn’t answer. And now the whole world knows it. And the whole world sees me as a demon. But I’m not. And they won’t believe me. Oh God, Mya, how could you? I stared out the window, alone in an airport in a strange city, thinking of the girl whose heart I’d broken, the girl whose destiny I had changed for the worse, the girl whose life would never be the same. I sat there and stared at the newspaper and thought of Mya, and thought of Amanda, and wondered if Paulina Cole was right.

28 T

he flight touched down just before five o’clock. I turned on my cell phone while people were still prying their oversize luggage from the overhead bins. There were eleven messages waiting for me. And I didn’t have that many friends. I speed-walked through the terminal listening to the messages. The first was from Amanda. Wanting to know if I’d seen the Dispatch today. Wanting to know if I’d heard from Mya. Wanting to know if I was okay. Her voice was a combination of sorrow because I’d known David Loverne, and anger because of what Mya had done. Ordinarily I’d be thrilled to know a girl was willing to fight for me, but all I could think about was Mya. She didn’t ask for this. And now her father was dead. The second message was from Jack O’Donnell, telling me to expect hellfire and brimstone but not to say a goddamn word to the press until everyone at the Gazette had a chance to sort through the wreckage. He told me to call him as soon as I got the message. The next two were from Wallace Langston. Asking me to call him as soon as I got his message. Telling me it was urgent beyond belief.

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The third was from a reporter from the New York Times. The fourth was from a reporter for the Associated Press. The fifth through tenth messages were also from reporters asking for a quote on today’s story in the Dispatch as well as my thoughts on the death of David Loverne. I knew nothing yet about the circumstances surrounding Loverne’s death. The last message was a hang up, but I heard a soft whisper say “Henry” before the line went dead. I didn’t need to check the call log to know who it was from. I checked the newsstand as I ran through the airport, hoping to see something about Loverne’s murder, but there was nothing. It happened too late to make the papers. The only ink about the Lovernes at all, in fact, was Paulina’s story. As I waited in the taxi line, I couldn’t help but think it was an awful coincidence that Mya’s father was killed the day Paulina’s story ran. That his dalliances seemed to have flown under the radar for so long, what were the chances of his being murdered on the very day they were made public, put under harsh light? The odds were too long to be a coincidence. Clearly Loverne was killed for a reason. I didn’t have to ask anyone. I knew Loverne had been killed by the same sick son of a bitch who’d killed Athena Paradis, Joe Mauser and Jeffrey Lourdes. Another public figure. Another public execution. I called Amanda first. “Jesus, Henry,” she said, picking up on the first ring. “Where are you?” “I’m on my way back from the airport. I should be in the city in twenty minutes.” “Are you okay?” How could I answer that? “I’m fine,” I said.

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“You don’t sound fine. Talk to me.” “I have to go right to the Gazette. They’re going to want to know what the hell is going on.” “Babe, I want to see you, are you sure you’re okay?” “I’m fine,” I said, this time my voice barely masking the irritation, then hating myself for talking to her like that. “I don’t know when I’ll be home, but I’ll talk to you then. I found a lot in New Mexico. I think I have a line on who the killer is. Or thinks he is.” “Well, I have to work late, but if you need anything please let me know. Hen, I’m so sorry about this. I know how close you were to that family.” It took a moment to gather myself. “Henry, you there?” “Yeah…listen, I’ll call you when I know more. I might need one of those cyanide pills they give to soldiers in case they’re captured.” “Don’t say that.” “I’m kidding.” “Call me when you know more. Talk to Jack, I’m sure he can help. I’ll see you at home. I love you.” I paused for a moment, letting those words sink in. “I love you, too.” As soon as I hung up I called Jack’s private line. There was no answer. I cursed and left a brief message. “Jack, it’s Henry. Listen, I have something you need to hear. I know why the killer is using that gun. Call me as soon as you get this. I’ll need your help before I go into the buzz saw.” As my cab veered toward the Grand Central Parkway, the sun began to dip below the clouds, turning New York a beautiful dark blue. I could feel sweat dripping down my neck.

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Putting Loverne’s murder aside, I had new information that would be vital to the reporting on this story. I just hoped it would be heard through all the noise. The fare was thirty-five bucks. I tossed two twenties at the driver and raced into the Gazette office. There were two other days I’d felt this kind of queasy apprehension about going to work. My first day in the office, where I met Wallace and Paulina and nearly offered to polish Jack O’Donnell’s shoes. My first day back on the job after running for my life from Joe Mauser and the assassin Shelton Barnes. And now today. I entered the silent lobby, heard my shoes clacking on the marble floor. The security guard nodded hello and went back to reading his newspaper. From his polite demeanor, I guessed he hadn’t read Paulina’s article. I swiped my pass and went to the Metro floor. The doors opened, and standing right there was Evelyn Waterstone. Short, cold, mean—I couldn’t tell if her reaction to my presence was based on general surliness or was simply her normal countenance. “Parker,” she said. “Hey, Evelyn,” I replied. “Nice reporting on the ballistics story with Jack.” “Thanks,” I stammered, trying to remember the last time Evelyn had offered a pleasantry. “Hope you’re still around tomorrow,” she added, before walking away. As I threaded my way toward my desk, I noticed that every reporter, stringer and editor had stopped what they were doing to watch me. I couldn’t look them in the eye. Once again, I was the story. I barely had time to sit down when Wallace was standing over my desk. His eyes were tinged with red and the indents

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on his nose meant he’d stayed at the office overnight without removing his glasses. His hair was askew, tie loosened, like a school kid roughed up by the classroom bully. He pressed his lips together and said, “Come with me.” I felt eyes boring into my back as we walked to the elevator. I didn’t have to ask where we were going. Wallace pressed the button, then shoved his hands back into his pockets. Then he looked at me. “That was good work you did for Jack,” he said. “I think there’s much more to these murders than the ballistic report,” I said. “I’ve been in New Mexico, I—” “Later,” Wallace said. The doors opened. “Let’s go.” My stomach surged upward with the motion of the elevator. I wondered if the feeling in my gut was what prisoners felt like before their execution. We got off on the eighteenth floor. I’d heard about the eighteenth floor, but had never been there. Unless you were nominated for a Pulitzer or were about to have the rug pulled out from your career, you never came up here. And I sure as hell wasn’t up for a Pulitzer. The digital counter stopped at 18. The doors opened. Everything looked newer up here; the wood paneling dark and freshly polished, the newspapers in the waiting area folded, and even the receptionist looked like she spent a little more time at the gym than those on the Metro floor. She guarded a narrow hallway with one set of double doors at the end. The office of Harvey Hillerman, chairman and CEO of the New York Gazette. Wallace nodded at the receptionist. “You can go right in,” she said. “Thanks, Gloria.” Gloria went back to typing. The doors swung open as we approached. Harvey Hillerman was standing in front of us, holding the door open, an

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unlit cigar in his mouth. The end was sopping wet and looked like a gangrenous limb that could detach at any moment. His sleeves were a little too long for his wrists. His jacket seemed to billow out. On the wall was a framed portrait of Hillerman standing next to Bill Clinton, Hillerman’s pants just a bit too baggy, as if the clothes he wore belonged to a larger man. Harvey Hillerman’s office was startlingly clear of any sort of clutter. Lining his walls were several dozen framed page ones from various Gazette editions. I scanned the headlines while Harvey and Wallace exchanged awkward pleasantries. April 4, 1996. Theodore Kaczynski, aka the Unabomber, is arrested at his remote cabin in Montana after his brother, David, notifies authorities. February 5, 1997. O.J. Simpson is found liable in civil court for the wrongful deaths of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman and ordered to pay $33,500,000 in damages. August 18, 1998. During Grand Jury testimony, President Bill Clinton admits to an “inappropriate” relationship with former White House intern Monica Lewinsky. July 17, 1999. John F. Kennedy, Jr. and his wife are killed after the plane Kennedy was flying crashes into the Atlantic Ocean. December 14, 2000. Democratic Presidential nominee Al Gore concedes the presidential election to George W. Bush, over a month after election day. September 12, 2001. The day after terrorists killed nearly three thousand Americans. March 3, 2002. The launch of Operation Anaconda, the first large-scale battle during the United States’ war in Afghanistan since the Battle of Tora Bora in December, 2001.

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March 13, 2003. Elizabeth Smart is found alive nine months after being kidnapped by two Morman fundamentalists. December 14, 2003. United States military forces capture Saddam Hussein. December 27, 2004. An earthquake measuring between 9.1-9.3 on the Richter scale occurs in the Indian Ocean, triggering massive tsunamis over South and Southeast Asia killing over 180,000 people. “Murder, calamity and scandal,” Hillerman said. “They’re usually the first things people look at.” My eyes leapt from the frames to the chairman. Harvey Hillerman was a tall man, gray neatly-coiffed hair, with round tortoiseshell eyeglasses and a Montblanc sticking out of his shirt pocket. His desk was covered with shiny things: trophies, awards, metallic pens and things encased in glass. He motioned to the framed editions. “Each of those represents the bestselling newspaper of that calendar year.” He gazed at them for a moment, reflective, then motioned to the oversize chairs positioned at forty-five-degree angles in front of his desk. “Wally, Henry, please sit,” he said. We both did so. “Sir,” I said, “before you say anything can I just say things didn’t happen the way the Dispatch said they did. Paulina, she—” “That’s enough, Parker,” Hillerman said. “Mind if I ask where you’ve been the last few days?” “New Mexico, sir.” “New Mexico!” Hillerman exclaimed. “What in the bloody hell were you doing in New Mexico, vacationing?” “No, sir,” I said. “I was following the lead Jack and I touched on in today’s paper. The gun angle. It goes deeper—”

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“Did you know about this trip to New Mexico?” Hillerman asked Wallace. “O’Donnell made me aware of it last night,” he said, looking at his shoes. Hillerman squinted his eyes as he stared at me. I didn’t know whether to stare back or let the visual beatdown continue. “So, Parker,” Hillerman finally said. His voice wasn’t reprimanding, it was…interested. “Tell us what you found in New Mexico.” I did a double take. “Sir?” “You went there for a reason. I’m hoping you didn’t come up empty-handed.” “Well,” I said, clearing my throat, “I was able to identify the murder weapon as a Winchester rifle, model 1873. That model is extremely rare, considering Winchester discontinued the gun a hundred years ago. There are barely a few dozen still in working condition.” Hillerman’s eyes widened. “I figured the gun had to have been stolen from either a private collection or a museum. Had a gun with that value been stolen from a collector, they would have filed the requisite insurance claims. There are less than twenty museums in North America with records of a Winchester 1873. Every museum still had the Winchester in their possession, except for one.” “Let me guess. It was in New Mexico,” Hillerman said. “That’s right.” “And did you find this museum?” “Yes, sir, I did. The Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen in Fort Sumner.” “And?” Hillerman said.

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“After getting railroaded at first by the manager, he eventually confessed that the model they were currently displaying was a replica, that the real one had been stolen several years back. They couldn’t afford the insurance or security measures and couldn’t risk losing tourist dollars by simply closing the exhibit.” “So the weapon this man has been using was stolen from a New Mexico museum and then brought to New York where it’s killed four people,” Hillerman said. “That’s an awful long schlep, just to use a certain gun.” “Not for this killer. He stole that gun for a reason,” I said. “And why is that?” “Because the gun he stole used to belong to Billy the Kid.” Hillerman sat back in his chair. The cigar was still hanging from his mouth, but he seemed to have forgotten about it. “What you’re saying is, this killer is using Billy the Kid’s old gun—as in the Billy the Kid—shoot-’em-up Billy the Kid—to kill people in New York City.” “Not just random people. He’s got a motive, a pattern. The killer has some sort of connection to either the gun itself or the Kid.” Hillerman cocked his head and looked at Wallace. The editor-in-chief hadn’t said a word in minutes. Wallace was between a rock and a hard place: attempting to keep control of his paper while having to account for his reporter being eviscerated in articles by their biggest competitor. “Wallace,” Hillerman said. “What do you think?” Wallace seemed to come to life. “We’ve already gotten three calls from Louis Carruthers’s office about Jack’s ballistics article. Apparently they knew about the similarities and were hoping to withhold information until further notice.” “But you’re saying Henry beat them to the punch.” “That’s right.”

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“And this new information, the possible link between the killer and the Kid, what have you heard on that?” “Complete silence from the NYPD,” Wallace said. “And they haven’t been silent about anything.” “Which likely means they weren’t aware of it,” Hillerman added. “That’s right.” Hillerman again leaned back in his chair, gnawed on the end of his stogie, then threw the soggy mess into a trash can. “Here’s what we do.” His voice was angry, passionate. My heart was beating faster, my resolve growing stronger. “We report the living hell out of this story. Henry,” he said, “I want you to chase this down like a goddamn shark smelling blood. I want you to get Lou Carruthers’s office on the line and get the NYPD’s cooperation. Since you seem to have scooped them on this, they’ll give you a big wet one in return for the intel. I want copy for tomorrow’s national edition about both the stolen Winchester and link to Billy the Kid. Just imply there might be a relationship, I don’t want anyone jumping to conclusions, but we need your museum manager to go on the record. You got me?” “Absolutely,” I said. “Right. Parker, get yourself home and clean up. You look like you just got mugged in the Gobi desert or something. Hell of a fucking job, Henry.” “What about Paulina Cole’s story?” I asked. “Fuck Cole,” Hillerman said. “Good, honest, unbiased reporting beats out tabloid bullshit any day of the week. You give our readers something new about this case the Dispatch doesn’t have, Paulina can pen hatchet jobs until her cooch defrosts, we’ll sell more newspapers. Now get to work.” Wallace and I were out the door before he could fish out another cigar.

29 I

got out of the subway and walked toward my apartment. The last hour had been a whirlwind of debriefing, notes jotted down with the penmanship of someone born without opposable thumbs, and the sketches for what I knew would be a terrific and stunning article. Jack filled me in on David Loverne’s murder, which was nearly unbearable to listen to. I had to distance myself, look at the situation objectively, try not to think that the murdered man we were discussing had once hugged me, shook my hand, even told me he expected great things from me. Had things turned out differently, the man might have been my father-in-law. I tried not to think about how it would leave Mya without a father. I tried not to think about Paulina’s article, written before Loverne’s death. The two had to be related. I was still stunned by the audacity and hatred steaming from Paulina’s article, but Wallace assured me that I would face no repercussions from Gazette management, and if need be they would defend me, publicly. I declined. They’d done enough of that already. After the debriefings, Wallace and I met with the Gazette’s legal team to draft a response for any reporters looking for a quote.

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The letter was brief. It said that Paulina’s story was careless and inflammatory, and any more attempts by this allegedly balanced news organization to libel without facts would be met with legal reprimands from the Gazette, and moral reprimands from readers who wouldn’t tolerate muckraking. That part was BS. Readers loved muckraking and, as much as it pained us, we knew Paulina’s article would sell newspapers. The details of David Loverne’s murder were gruesome in both their brutality and efficiency. After Paulina’s story ran in the Dispatch, in which she alleged that Loverne’s history of infidelity would soon come to light, the press corps descended on the man’s apartment building eager to take photographs of drawn curtains, berate cleaning ladies and doormen, and try to scrape up the scraps Paulina had left under the table. When a person was accused of wrongdoing, people didn’t try very hard to photograph their good side. Around five o’clock, Loverne left to attend a previously scheduled fund-raiser. He was swarmed by dozens of reporters. In what would be viewed as a colossal blunder, Loverne had no private security, and the elderly doorman was easily overmatched. As Loverne attempted to push his way through, a lone rifle shot shattered the commotion, blood splashed against the glass doors, and David Loverne died. The photographers spent their entire rolls shooting Loverne’s body, the blood pouring from his chest, as well as the rooftop where it seemed the shot had come from. Several photographers even tried to bully their way into that very building to either catch the culprit or take photographs of the crime scene before the police arrived. Thankfully that doorman was a former cop, realized what was going on and locked the doors.

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The shooter was long gone. But by the time the police arrived, hundreds of photos of Loverne’s body were circulating among newsrooms, tabloids and the Internet. I called Curt Sheffield to get the lowdown. He told me one of the investigating officers mentioned that another note had been left by the killer, but it was being kept quieter than a mouse fart. He didn’t find it amusing when I asked him if he could hold a megaphone to the mouse’s ass to hear it better. “Doesn’t matter if I tell you,” Curt said. “Guy’s as vague as my little sister when I ask her how a date went.” “He didn’t leave a note with Jeffrey Lourdes. Now he changes his tune and leaves one with David Loverne. This is my ex’s father, man, cough it up.” “Again,” Curt said, “you use this before it’s made public, I’ll string you up to a lamppost. The note was just one line. It read, ‘Because I had the power.’ That’s it.” “‘Because I had the power’? That’s pretty vague. What’s it mean?” “You’re the reporter,” Curt replied. “You ask me, this guy’s been watching too much David Lynch.” As soon as I hung up with Curt, I did a search for that quote, only adding “William H. Bonney” to the search field. What came back was most certainly not vague. In 1878, corrupt sheriff William Brady arrested Billy the Kid under the auspices of helping the Kid arrest John Tunstall’s killers. When a reporter asked the lawman why he would arrest Bonney, a seemingly innocent man, Brady replied simply, “Because I had the power.” The connection was no longer a secret. This killer wanted us to know he had a foot in the past. The notes and public executions were garnering more media attention than anything I’d seen since coming to the city. Only not exactly in the way I expected.

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The country was captivated by these murders, and the obsession had grown with every shot. Internet sites receiving millions of hits a day were all but praising the murderer. Paradis, many said, was single-handedly responsible for the downfall of popular culture, and, many said, morals and ethics, as well. David Loverne had long claimed to uphold traditional family values, only in reality he had more sexual partners than the average Mormon. Mayor Perez—the intended target—another empty suit full of insincere promises. Jeffrey Lourdes, once a respected visionary, had been reduced to common gossip and smut peddler. I couldn’t believe these attitudes were so prevalent, that murder was being looked at by some as a reasonable means to an end. But they were. Somehow the man destroying lives was actually endearing himself to the public, by eliminating those deemed to be making our society ill. When I read those articles, shook my head at the stories, I knew what the link was. Why the man was killing who he did. He was an avenger. A Regulator. Killing those who needed to be killed for the greater good. Could there really be such a large portion of the population convinced that these murders were a good thing? Was it just cynical ghouls who would never know what it was like to lose a daughter, a father, a husband? That the person committing these crimes was not someone to erect a statue for, but rather a gallows? I thought about Rex. Something was still troubling me about our conversation, but in my rush to return to New York I hadn’t been able to follow up. Before I left, he mentioned a name. Brushy Bill. It sounded familiar for some reason, and I made a mental note to follow up with Rex later on. I had a full night ahead of me. I wondered when Amanda would be

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home. I missed talking to her, and hoped to God that everything Jack told me the other day could be chalked up to the ramblings of an old, lonely man. That just because he was going to die alone didn’t mean I would. Amanda had saved my life; was my life. And I wouldn’t give that up without one hell of a fight. But then I rounded the corner to my apartment and saw the one thing I never expected to see. I stopped on a dime. Couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to do or what to say. Whether to go forward and confront it, or to turn and run. The anger inside me rose up, threatened to consume everything, but her tears, the misery etched on her face, they drowned it all out. So when I saw Mya Loverne standing alone in front of my building, wearing an old sweatshirt, her eyes bleary and red from crying, I didn’t know whether to scream at her, or to gather her in my arms and tell her everything would be all right. Like I should have done the night she got hurt. Like I hadn’t done for her since. “Henry,” she sobbed, taking a tentative step toward me. I couldn’t move. All I could do was stare at the woman who’d shared my bed so many nights, whose hand I’d held and caressed, who just the other day had thrown me under a bus driven by Paulina Cole. A girl who had just lost her father to a heartless monster. I didn’t know what to say to this girl. But then I found myself taking a step forward. “Henry,” she said again, the sobs now racking her small body. Mya looked like she’d lost at least twenty pounds since I’d last seen her, and she was a slim girl to begin with. She looked malnourished, pale, like she had given up on herself. “Henry, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to say all those things, they just happened. Henry, I’m so sorry. Please, my father, I don’t know what to do.”

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My heart broke as I watched this, this shell of my former love. I took another step toward her, and she did the same. “My dad,” she cried, her voice interrupted by staccato sobs, “my dad was killed. Oh God, Henry, please say something.” I took another step. I could feel her breath, caught the faint whiff of perfume sprayed on long ago and never washed off. Her hair was a ragged mess, her eyes streaked and bloodshot. “Mya, I’m so sorry for your father…I…he was a good person.” “I know he was good,” she shouted. “So why did he have to die?” She came toward me, didn’t hesitate, and suddenly Mya was leaning against my chest. Not in an embrace, but for support. There was no strength in her. If I moved she would collapse. But I didn’t move. I couldn’t. “Mya, I’m going to find this guy. I promise. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done, everything I did.” She looked up at me. Her eyes blinked twice. She sniffed. “You told me you would always be there for me,” she said. My stomach burned as I drew in a breath. Then her eyes opened, I saw a fire in them, as she pounded her fists against my chest and screamed, “Where were you, Henry? Where were you when I lost everything? When my fucking father died? Where have you been?” She brought her fists down on my chest, punching me with no force behind the blows. Then I took her arms and held them. “I’m going to help you,” I said. “I’m going to help you get your life back together. You’ve always been one of the strongest people I’ve ever known, Mya. And you can come back. You can do great things.” “I have nobody,” Mya cried softly. “I lost you. I lost my father.”

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“You didn’t lose me,” I said gently. “You didn’t want me. We weren’t right together. You don’t want me. You haven’t for a long time. But I can help you. I will help you.” “I just want to be happy,” Mya said. She wiped her eyes. A piece of lint from her sweatshirt caught on her eyelash. I plucked it free. She laughed through her sobs. “You used to make me happy, Henry.” I didn’t know how to respond. Mya’s arms had freed themselves, and I felt them wrap around my waist. Mya hadn’t been this close to me in a long time. Yet there were no sparks. I held her like I would hold a small child. For comfort. For protection. I wanted to hate her. I wanted to ask why she said those things to Paulina, why she took our private life and made it public, why she threatened to ruin us both. But I also wanted to squeeze all the pain from her body. Because she didn’t deserve any of it. Before I could think, I felt Mya’s breath on my face; harsh, sweet. She leaned in. I wanted to stop her but I couldn’t. Couldn’t say no to her right now. I felt her breath, didn’t want it like this. But I couldn’t break this girl’s heart one more time. Her breath touched my lips, I wasn’t going to stop her, and then they pressed against mine, hot and needy. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” My body went rigid. I pried myself from Mya’s grip. Her hands slid off me. She’d heard the voice, too. I was afraid to turn around, but I had to. Amanda was standing on the corner. Watching us. A bag of groceries lay at her feet. Where she’d dropped them. “No. No, no, no no no. You have got to be fucking joking,” she said. She left the groceries and started toward us with a frightening urgency. I tried to open my mouth but nothing came out.

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“Amanda,” I said. It’s not what it looks like. I can explain. Of course I would say those things. Isn’t that what every guy said? “You goddamn whore,” Amanda spat. “You drag him through your filth and then you come to our house to spread it around? Get the fuck out of here, you disgusting tramp.” Mya took a step toward Amanda, like she might do or say something, but then she turned and ran away. I turned back to Amanda. “Wait,” I said. “So was she wearing perfume?” Amanda asked, her eyes wild, searching for some crazy answer. “Tell me she drugged you, that she had a gun, that she’s the lunatic who’s killing all those people and offered to sleep with you for the scoop. Tell me something other than you were just standing here playing tonsil hockey with the girl who dragged your name through the mud. Tell me there’s more to it.” “Her father was killed,” I said. “I didn’t know what to do.” “No, you knew what to do. You decided to be hero Henry fucking Parker and swoop in for the rescue. Is that your M.O. now? You find these damaged girls and pretend to be their savior until the next basket case comes along? Is that what you did with me? You were tired of Mya so when I happened by you figured you’d take my broken ass for a spin?” “It’s not like that and you know it. I love you, Amanda.” “Then why were you kissing another fucking girl?” she shouted. “I didn’t…I…she held me,” I said, realizing how lame it sounded as soon as the words came out of my mouth. Amanda looked back at the groceries. “There’s your dinner,” she said. “Cook it yourself. Burn the apartment down. I’m going to stay at the office tonight.” She turned and started to walk away.

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“Amanda,” I said, following her. My head was spinning, my heart felt like it was about to burst. This couldn’t be happening. “If you follow me I’ll call the cops and tell them Mya’s girlfriend-beating ex is coming after me.” I stopped in my tracks, blinking rapidly. “Try me,” she said. “I swear I’ll do it.” Then her hand was in the air. A cab chugged up to the curb. I could feel the eyes of a dozen strangers watching the scene unfold. I watched as Amanda got into a cab, fleeing in a cloud of exhaust, leaving me alone on the street with a bagful of groceries.

30 I

stood on the street corner. My feet tapped involuntarily. My brain was running on about four gallons of caffeine, half of which probably hadn’t even entered my bloodstream and would cause my eyes to pop out of their sockets any minute now. I didn’t sleep last night. I watched Amanda’s cab drive off, picked up the discarded groceries, put them away neatly. I called Amanda. She told me not to call again. I didn’t. Instead I took a cab to her office, saw the light on, and stood outside all night just to make sure she was safe. She didn’t need to know I was there. But I did. The next morning I decided to visit Agnes Trimble. It was 8:45 a.m. I’d already plowed through the Gazette and the Dispatch. A reporter had written an article about the growing public sentiment that the killer might have done a public service by killing four people. Tomorrow more ghouls would come out of the woodwork and celebrate this murderer, and soon it would cross over from print to radio to television. Four lives were being trivialized, and a killer was being glorified. Undoubtedly reporters would eat each other to get the first scoop, pay loads of money to interview this beast.

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Pretend to be appalled by the killer’s deeds while cashing the checks he helped rake in. I waited outside the department building for Agnes. She got off the bus, then dropped her keys when she saw me. I guess if I saw a guy with messy hair, dark circles under his eyes and a heroin addict’s jitters waiting in front of my office I’d be a little unnerved, too. “Professor Trimble,” I said, trying to slow down my convulsions. “Do you have a minute?” “Mr. Parker,” she said, picking up her keys and smoothing out her clothes. “My taking your appointment with Amanda did not give you a free invitation to show up uninvited before I’ve had my morning scone.” “I understand that and I apologize for my abruptness and for interrupting your, uh, scone eating. But I need your help.” She sighed. “I should charge you a convenience fee.” Then noticed I’d come alone. “Miss Davies isn’t with you today?” “No, just me,” I said, eager to avoid any more discussions of Amanda. Agnes didn’t need to know that the only way I could stop myself from thinking about Amanda was following this story. Agnes entered the building, led me to her office. She unlocked the door and flipped the light switch, the lava lamp glowing a festive red and green and casting a Christmas-y glow over her replica firearms. “Did you have any luck with the information on the Winchester?” she asked. “You have no idea,” I said. I told her about New Mexico, about the stolen Winchester, and the connection to Billy the Kid. When I finished Agnes sat back and twiddled her lip with her thumbs. “William H. Bonney,” she said, “is one of the most mis-

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understood figures not only to come from the lawlessness of the Old West, but in all of history.” “How so?” “For the most part, Billy the Kid has been portrayed as one of the most brutal men to ever raise a rifle. It’s true Bonney killed over twenty men and almost single-handedly changed this country to the United States of Anarchy. But…” She trailed off. “But what?” “But as you may not know, Bonney wasn’t always evil. He was a petty thief who actually wanted to do good.” “The Regulators,” I said. “That’s right. See, Billy was the very first inspiration for tabloid journalism.” “Yellow journalism,” I said, remembering my conversation with Jack. “That’s right. And let me tell you, some of the crock those papers churned out would put the Weekly World News to shame. Every inch Billy took, they credited him with a yard. It’s true that he was one of the most deadly men to ever hold a Winchester, but it wasn’t until his killer, Pat Garrett, published a book about the whole ordeal that the legend took off. Fact is, Bonney was only confirmed to have killed nine men. The others were killed in larger gunfights. Most were likely killed by other members of the Regulators, but guess who got credit. Most of his closest friends thought the Kid was pretty easygoing, even funny, but dime store novelists knew funny didn’t sell a villain. Dangerous, cold-blooded and hair-triggered did. “You look at the legend of Billy the Kid now,” she continued, “almost a hundred and thirty years after his death, and the man has become a folk hero.” “Does the name Brushy Bill mean anything to you?” Agnes eyed me suspiciously. “Where did you hear that?”

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“In Fort Sumner. A museum curator mentioned it.” “Never mind Brushy Bill Roberts. That’s one myth grown from diseased roots.” “If it’s all the same, Professor Trimble, I’d like the opportunity to check every tree and then decide if I’m barking up the wrong one.” She sighed. “It really is just a waste of time.” “Tell that to the four dead people.” Agnes sighed. “If you insist. Brushy Bill Roberts,” she continued, “was a charlatan in the 1950s who claimed to be Billy the Kid.” “Wasn’t the Kid shot and killed in 1881?” “Yes,” Agnes said. “But like Elvis, Tupac Shakur and the Loch Ness monster, some people simply love conspiracy theories and won’t give them a rest despite all the evidence proving their insane delusions are complete bunk.” “I love bunk,” I said. “Explain the bunk.” “In 1949, a probate officer investigated the claim of a man named Joe Hines. While interviewing him, the officer learned that Hines had been involved in the Lincoln County wars. Hines claimed to have known Billy the Kid. He said Pat Garrett never shot the Kid, and that Bonney was actually alive and well and living in Hamilton, Texas, under the name of Ollie P. ‘Brushy Bill’ Roberts. Out of curiosity, the officer went down to Hamilton and found Roberts. After being confronted with the witness, Roberts confessed to being the Kid. Roberts then fought to reclaim his ‘lost’ identity, saying he wished to die with the pardon Texas Governor Lew Wallace had reneged on over eighty years ago.” Agnes stopped. “And?” I said.

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“And Brushy Bill Roberts was quickly discredited and died the next year. End of story.” “Wow,” I said. “That’s a pretty abrupt ending.” “I don’t deal in charlatans, Mr. Parker. They’re not a legitimate part of history and aren’t worth wasting my time or yours with. Brushy Bill is worth no more consideration than the boogeyman or Freddy Krueger. Now will there be anything else, Mr. Parker? I haven’t even touched my scone yet.” I leaned forward, put on my most soothing voice. Which, considering my girlfriend had just left me on the side of the street, was probably as soothing as sandpaper on dry skin. “Let’s just say,” I said, “that I wanted to know more about Brushy Bill for entertainment’s sake. You know, so I could win my next game of Trivial Pursuit.” She let out an audible sigh. Her eyes showed tremendous skepticism. Then they softened. She reached into her desk and pulled out a battered leather address book. She flipped through it, paused at a name, then scribbled something on a Post-it note which she then handed to me. Written on the note was the name Professor Largo Vance, retired. A phone number with a 212 area code was written next to it. “Professor Vance lives in the city,” Agnes said. “He was previously professor emeritus at Columbia, but was expelled due to scandal.” “What kind of scandal?” I asked. “Of the grave-robbing kind.” “Oh. That kind of scandal.” “If you want to chase ghosts and waste time, do yourself a favor and speak to Vance, he’s a master of both. And I hope for your sake you’re not allergic to cats.” “Not that I know of,” I said, standing up. I offered my hand.

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Agnes took it reluctantly. “Thanks for your help. Hopefully this will all lead to something.” “Piece of advice, Henry. If you go chasing false light, you’ll end up in darkness. Don’t bother.” I gave a courteous nod and left her office. I wanted to stop at home and change, then call Professor Vance and meet with him as soon as possible. If there was any more to this story, I wanted to alert Wallace and Jack and hopefully make tomorrow’s national edition. I hailed a cab and headed home, plunging my head into the leather seat rest. I took a deep breath and could feel my body swimming away. The more I